


People Error

by vaguesalvation



Series: People Error [2]
Category: the GazettE
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-16
Updated: 2011-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-24 16:45:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 55,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaguesalvation/pseuds/vaguesalvation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is unexplainable, unpredictable, and it turns his life upside-down. For better or worse, he's not entirely sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Noticing The Loosened Thread

**Author's Note:**

> My first big project. I'm still quite fond of it, though my writing has definitely improved since I finished this 2009. It contains very brief and small mentions of BDSM. It is also the main part of my People Error Universe, hence the fact that the series is named after it. As of right now, it is the second part that was written, but last chronologically.

The stage was black…quiet. Uke Yutaka inhaled deeply and allowed his arms to relax at his sides. He bowed his head over his battered drum set, ignoring his muscles’ inclination to collapse. The drummer was on the verge of exhaustion. He reached for the small bottle of water next to him, however rather than allowing the cool liquid to rush down his throat, he emptied its contents onto his over-stimulated body.

Too soon, the numerous overhead lights cast a bright, white glow over the stage, exposing the rest of the band. Yutaka wiped his brow and focused his attention to the small vocalist who had already begun to speak to the audience. Listening to Takanori’s speeches was always something Yutaka looked forward to; the man had a talent for eloquence. The drummer felt that Takanori’s words not only connected the vocalist with the audience, but the band as a unit.

To his left, Kouyou stood facing away from him, looking out over the crowd. Guitar slung over a slumped shoulder, barely hanging on, the man looked as exhausted as Yutaka felt. Sweat dripped down the length of his purple top. Standing with his legs wide as they were, Yutaka got the distinct impression that the guitarist was trying his damnedest to stay upright as long as possible. His knees were locked as he focused solely on the words Takanori spoke.

His gaze skimmed across the stage once more, resting on the guitarist to his right. Yuu’s face was hidden behind a curtain of well-maintained, brunette hair, his eyes lowered. This particular stance clearly defined the man’s mysterious persona, and even his profound way of thinking for which the drummer held great admiration. At the same time, he envied the way in which Yuu could perfectly project his feelings by facial expression. His eyes alone had certain significances to them that Yutaka couldn’t begin to describe.

That wasn’t to mention Yuu’s perfect taste in designer clothing.

Lastly, Yutaka’s eyes moved to the man directly next to him. Akira had an almost bored stature about him, bouncing nervously from one foot to the other, and glancing in all directions. The drummer smiled again, he hadn’t known the bassist as long as the other members, but their common work with rhythm forced them into close collaboration at times, and it hadn’t taken him long to notice that the blonde allowed his mind to wander. A lot.

Akira turned his head in the direction of the drum set. Yutaka couldn’t think of any word short of gorgeous to describe the man’s appearance. He looked longer than he’d originally anticipated causing their lines of vision to overlap. The drummer quickly looked away, hoping that the rush of heat to his cheeks wouldn’t be enough to change their colour. Even after a year and a half, locking eyes with the bassist hadn’t lost its intensity.

As he adjusted one of his cymbals absently, midnight black eyes stood foremost in his mind. They were wide, almost innocent, free of the contacts the other three members had been recently fond of donning for their “visual” appearance.

Raw, Yutaka had thought to himself once. Akira’s gaze was raw, where others’ were always so guarded. If he took the chance to look long enough, he was sure he would find something there.

And maybe that had been the start of his interest with the older man. Perhaps it had something to do with those eyes and it had been predestined to grow from there.

When Yutaka turned back to the bassist, he wasn’t surprised to see that the blonde was no longer looking at him, but instead gazing toward Takanori. He bit at the inside of his lip, trying to curb the surge of frustration that washed over him.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the increased volume of Takanori’s voice. The vocalist must have been nearing the end of his well thought out speech. Yutaka positioned himself over his drums properly, getting himself ready to play at Takanori’s signal.

The air that surrounded the arena was thick with anticipation as Gazette’s fans anxiously awaited the announcement of the band’s final song. Even with knowledge of the song Yutaka felt the same surge of excitement when Takanori yelled the title to the band’s latest single and he furiously began playing the familiar opening beats.

Miseinen.

The crowd roared with appreciation, Yutaka knew that most of them had to be as fatigued as the band, yet they still continued to cheer the members on, their chants united, filling the venue with praise.

The drummer felt as if his arms might fall off if forced to move any longer. Regardless, he labored though the final guitar and bass solo’s, and the last spine-tingling lyrics that Takanori sang to the crowd. The pain his body was beginning to experience didn’t phase him because of the sheer impact of the song he was performing.

It symbolized the growth of the band and of his membership. He felt proud that he had been a part of the creation of the song from the beginning, that he wasn’t simply mimicking beats that had been set by another person. His thoughts trailed over the numerous songs he had helped compose since he’d joined, but none of them seemed that have the same lasting effect as this one.

Yutaka felt that he belonged with the other four talented men in front of him. He felt as though he wasn’t just a drummer to replace the old one. Yutaka smiled as he thought of the decision the band had made only a few hours ago, and how honored he’d felt to accept it. A stream of moisture ran down the sides of his cheeks as he thought of his accomplishments as a drummer.

And as Gazette’s Leader.

As Takanori sang the final notes and the guitarists’ fingers slowed on the strings of their instruments, Yutaka beat a steady, harsh ending rhythm as he bent over his snare in elated exhaustion. His feet, throbbing from both pain and excitement, slid off the pedals of his bass drum. His limbs felt limp, as if barely hanging on to his torso by their joints. He was lost for a moment, completely beside himself, trapped in the contemplative silence that filled him just after the song ended. His eyes were closed, his head bowed.

But slowly, gradually, he heard it. The eruption of noise outside him, the cheering, of the fans. And using strength borne from that energy, he threw his head back, his voice joining that of the audience just as the lights exploded around him.

When his eyes opened, he was standing, though he didn’t remember telling his body to do so. Takanori was speaking again, his voice emotional, thankful, his words saying what each of them wanted to voice but couldn’t; thanking everyone that made it possible for them to be standing together on stage. He held out his hands, Yutaka and the rest of the band followed in example, watching patiently as the crowd positioned themselves to do the same.

The band raised their hands overhead, waiting for Takanori to make the final countdown and close their second free-standing tour. Yutaka smiled, the other four smiled with him as the tired vocalist took the microphone from his mouth and yelled. At that moment, the five band members, along with a couple hundred fans, jumped together.

The crowd roared for the last time that evening. Yutaka waved and bowed in thanks for their support. He looked over to his left, seeing Kouyou coming at him, they embraced, followed by Yuu and Takanori. Yutaka looked across the stage to see the remaining member. He hesitantly approached him.

The bassist grinned and pulled the drummer into the same kind of hug the others had, yet Yutaka felt differently about it. He didn’t want it to end. Akira patted his back muttering ‘we did it’ and moved on to the next member.

Yutaka lingered on the stage for a while longer, waiting or the other four to make their exits so he could throw his remaining, unbroken drumsticks into the audience. On the way back stage he passed a microphone, he gave the fans one last thank you before disappearing behind the black curtain that lead to the dressings rooms.

 

-o-

 

“That’s my water!” Yuu was yelling, staring wide-eyed at his fellow guitarist across the room when Yutaka entered. The blonde simply shrugged, wincing as he put his swollen fingers back into what the drummer assumed was Yuu’s proclaimed drink.

“I have some over there you can drink.” Kouyou said, his voice hoarse, his eyes drooping. Yutaka smiled tiredly as he passed, heading toward the only couch that wasn’t already occupied by their bags and such. He let himself fall unceremoniously across it, his limbs sprawled away from his body.

His eyes immediately closed.

“I doubt that’s water.” He heard Yuu mutter and he smiled to himself, knowing exactly what the older man was talking about.

However, Kouyou’s love of alcohol was a well-known fact all around.

“I heard that.” The blonde grunted as he passed the worn couch towards the section of the backstage he’d inhabited.

Yutaka didn’t really understand how the two of them could be talking so animatedly at a time like this, when he wasn’t feeling above collapsing on the uncomfortable couch. In fact, he knew the only reason he hadn’t immediately fallen asleep was that he couldn’t get his leg to quit with its annoying twitching.

“You should walk that off.”

He pried his eyes open to see Yuu standing above him, a replacement water bottle in his hand. The guitarist was drenched, Yutaka supposed that that was more from the water he’d poured over his head on the way off stage than actual sweat. The liquid had caused the thick black eye liner around his lids to run down his face in jagged, ungraceful lines.

“I don’t think I can stand up now,” He admitted, chuckling. Yuu nodded in understanding, kicking a leg out to nudge one of Yutaka’s out of the way. Yutaka forced himself to sit so the other man could join him.

Yuu leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes. Yutaka laughed,  
sparking the older man’s attention. He opened one eye and looked over at the drummer.

“What?”

“Nothing…it’s just for the first time all evening you look like you’re actually tired.”

“Well yeah…were you expecting me not to be?”

“No, it’s not that. You just have a way of keeping your composure, like you could play for hours and never look as if you feel the effects of it.”

“Really?” The man looked puzzled, “I’ve never noticed.”

Yutaka grinned and let his eyes fall closed again.

Suddenly, there was a grunt of frustration emitting from the hall next to them. If the men hadn’t been so tired, they would have gotten up to investigate the commotion, but it turned out it wasn’t necessary. A few moments later a very unhappy looking Kouyou burst into the room.

“What the hell is up with you?” Yuu exclaimed.

“The door to my dressing room is locked. All I want to do is get some one my stuff and go back to the hotel so I can sleep, but I can’t get into my own goddamned dressing room!” The man sighed and threw himself down on a chair across from the other two.

Yutaka emitted a feeble excuse for a laugh. He thought about a conversation he’d had with a crewmember as they’d been setting up for the bands finale. She had voiced something close to concern in regard too the odd actions between the band’s vocalist and bassist. The way they would walk off during breaks, reappearing with extra wide grins on their faces. Or how they never seemed to be away from one another.

The drummer had thought it was obvious that the two’s relationship wasn’t strictly platonic.

“What are you laughing at?” Kouyou spat at him.

Yutaka smiled, “I was just wondering where Akira and Takanori had run off to.”

The blondes head shot up, his eyes wide with a sudden awareness. “Shit.”

Both Yutaka and Yuu laughed as they watched the guitarist rush back the way he came, wondering if what the drummer was suggesting reflected reality.

 

-o-

 

Suzuki Akira collapsed against the side of the vanity the moment he stepped into the dressing room he shared with Kouyou and Takanori, his hands--worn, exhausted from hours of abuse--shooting out to catch him before his body could fall. His breathing was labored and uneasy as he climbed onto the tall chair in front of the mirror and leaned back, his arms dangling at his sides. The limbs seemed used and now totally useless.

But there was a steady beat against the inside of his ribcage, frighteningly erratic, panicked almost. His feet still tapped out the beat of the last song they had played that night, while he could still see white flashes behind his closed lids. The crowd still cheered his name if he listened hard enough.

“You’re vibrating.”

He hadn’t heard the vocalist enter, but he knew who was whispering those words into his ear, who was breathing down side of his neck. He mustered up the strength to curve the left side of his mouth up into a smirk. He felt pressure against his abdomen, a familiar, intoxicating smell sweeping over his body.

“So are you.”

The bassist didn’t have much time to get out anything else; the vocalist was quick with his assault of the older man’s relaxed mouth. Akira whined with surprise as the adrenaline already passing through him flared up with more intensity than it had since the beginning of the band’s set. His once limp hands rose to grasp handfuls of the wet jersey fabric of Takanori’s t-shirt. Both men groaned.

Surprisingly strong hands wrapped around his wrists, closing over them in a heated connection that pulled a strangled moan from his throat. His eyes shot open, his lips pulling away from Takanori’s in an attempt to breathe and question the vocalist’s intentions.

“Taka--”

“Don’t talk.”

Takanori used the grip on his arms to pull him up from the chair, teeth scraping down the length of the tendon protruding from his neck in the process. He let his head fall back, exposing more flesh for the shorter man, vocalizing his appreciation of a particularly sharp bite at his clavicle. His legs threatened to give out beneath him, just collapse under his weight, and he wondered for a moment if Takanori would have the strength to hold him up.

With how much sweat was still dripping down the front of the vocalist’s shirt and how exhausted he’d looked on stage, the answer to that question was most likely a no.

“But… Taka… we’re--”

“I said be quiet,” the smaller man whispered, his lips brushing the shell of Akira’s ear, making the bassist shudder, “someone might hear you.”

All Akira could think to do then was nod and tighten his hold on Takanori’s shirt, returning the kiss that was pressed to his lips with fervor. Fingers much smoother than his own slipped up under the hem of his shirt, toying with the waistband of his pants for a moment before tracing the skin just under his navel lightly.

Akira could feel his already indomitable pants tighten from the addition of hardening flesh. The vocalist also seemed to have noticed. Hands skimmed past the pressured clasp and messaged one of the blondes heated thighs.

It seemed like hours had gone by between that moment and Takanori’s sudden burst of dominance that forced the bassist to turn around, bent over the chair. The vocalist loosened his grip on Akira’s weakened wrist, but only to expertly push his bothersome pants down just below his knees, leaving him exposed. Vulnerable.

It wasn’t until he felt the hard shape of Takanori’s cock pressed between his barely spread thighs that he noticed the other man’s erection had been released from it’s previous holdings. The bassist gasped for breath and dug his fingernails into the sides of the chair, leaving crescent imprints on the glossy plastic. Anticipating his lover’s intent was enough to send him over the edge in his heightened state of emotion.

Cotton felt rough as sandpaper sliding up over the skin of his sweat-slick back and he groaned, remembering to bite his tongue before crying out fully. He pressed his forehead into the back of the chair, skin sticking to the plastic, and closed his eyes. Waiting, he inhaled deeply, holding air that smelled like cigarette smoke, sex, and Takanori in his lungs until they burned pleasantly.

Then Takanori was leaning over him, tongue trailing up his spine. He helped the vocalist pull his shirt over his head, poised to toss it off beside them, but was stopped when his wrists were forced against the arms of the chair. The t-shirt was caught around his wrists as well, thrown over the back of the chair, trapping his arms in place. The air in his lungs left in a rush of pleasant anticipation and he swallowed heavily.

He could feel the smirk on the vocalist’s lips against the side of his neck, the soft pads of Takanori’s fingers sliding down his sides until hands wrapped around his hips.

There was no warning--not that Akira needed one--before Takanori was entering him with one, hard thrust, teeth sinking into his shoulder at the same moment. This time, the bassist was not able to stifle his cry completely. His head fell back, eyes snapping open, fluorescent lights adding too the nearly blinding pleasure-pain.

The younger man immediately covered Akira’s mouth with his fingers, attempting to muffle the remainder of his outburst. The thin, white, silk fabric that was tied around the bassist’s face slid down and rested gently on top his collarbone. Takanori lowered himself next to his ear, and almost inaudible whisper escaping dry lips.

“I told you to be quiet.”

A hand snaked it’s way across Akira’s exposed neck, fingers twisting the lose ends of the silk strap between them.

With the same sudden movements as before, the vocalist pushed himself deeper inside the bassist, using the thin fabric as leverage. Akira’s eyes rolled to the back, his mouth hanging open. His throat was constricted further with ever thrust his lover made. Within seconds, Akira’s oxygen was completely cut off and breathing was no longer under his control.

Takanori let up on the strap, allowing the bassist to gasp for breath for a few seconds before he resumed its constriction. All the while, the vocalist never broke the steady rhythmic thrusts, bringing himself closer to release with each stroke.

For Akira, the same did not apply.

The bassist flexed his trembling hands, the lack of oxygen to the limbs making them grow numb and tingly. His lungs burned with the need to breathe, and his heart pounded against his ribs in panic. He could feel his pulse in his brain, thudding against his skull, flooding his mind with the need to release built up chemicals. His vision blurred, tunneled, darkened around the edges. The fluorescent lights above him became nothing more than streetlamps on a dark night in his deeply imaginative mind, fluttering out of his control. He was aware of every part of his body, but quickly becoming disassociated with it.

Having no more strength to keep hold, the bassist spilled on the chair below him, moaning with all the volume his abused vocal cords would allow. A wave of powerful dizziness hit him, prolonging the pleasure, while his vision when to black to white and back again in quick succession. It seemed to go on forever, coming in torrents, like a storm, before everything suddenly collapsed around him and he felt himself fall limp against the chair, spent, confused.

He was only vaguely aware of the grunt of pleasure behind him as Takanori’s climax washed over him, the warmth of the vocalists release only a mild discomfort to his over-stimulated body. The thin strip of fabric had almost immediately been released from his neck, returning oxygen to him, but not equilibrium. He settled for staying curled around the edge of the chair.

He whimpered at the feel of Takanori sliding out, wincing at the burn in his throat the action caused. He could still feel the silk around his neck, constricting his airway with bruising force, his lover’s hand tangled deeply with its end.

It had been unexpected, but not at all unappreciated.

But he had never felt so exhausted before in his life.

Gently, as if Takanori hadn’t just come dangerously close to killing him, the vocalist pulled his shirt off his wrists, letting the garment fall to the floor. If his throat hadn’t hurt so badly, he would have chuckled at the way the smaller man then moved to try to catch him as he let himself slide further down the chair to rest against the floor.

Almost immediately, the vocalist ran the soft tips of his fingers down the side of Akira’s cheek, a gesture followed by a gentle stream of kisses down the man’s bruised neck. The bassist quietly voiced his appreciation. The younger man looked into his lover’s eyes, his own expression filled with compassion. “You alright?”

Akira laughed at the thought of being anything less than okay; he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt better in his life. “I love you.”

Takanori smiled and leaned in to kiss him. The kiss was less intense than the first, but had more emotion behind it than any kiss the two had ever shared. Akira closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around the vocalist’s neck.

“Take me home,” he whispered quietly against Takanori‘s lips. The bassist wanted nothing more than to curl up next to Takanori and fall asleep.

“Gladly.” The vocalist stood up carefully, pulling his soiled pants up before he reached out a hand to the bassist below him. Akira was a bit more wobbly with his ascent than the other man had been. If not for Takanori’s grip, he would have fallen back onto the tile floor.

After a few moments, when confident they were both able to walk without the aide of each other, they took a few moments to gather up the few things they wanted from the small room, deciding that they would come back the next day to get the rest. For now, the couple decided it was best if they made it to the nearby hotel before they passed out.

Takanori reached for the door handle and unlocked it. Without much delay to his action the door swung open violently, from the other side. Kouyou was standing with a look mixed with disgust and shock.

“If I find anything--anything--on my bag, I will kill the both of you. Slowly and painfully,” the blonde guitarist ground out through clenched teeth before Takanori was able to say anything.

“Well, nice to see you too, Princess.” The vocalist replied, chuckling at the way honey eyes rolled dramatically and Akira was forcefully shoved to the side so Kouyou could move into the room and stalk over to his things in the back corner.

Akira winced, grabbing a hold of a sore shoulder. He leaned heavily against the doorframe for a moment, his eyes falling closed and his lungs expelling a tired breath. His head was still swimming with dizziness, his limbs still tingling.

A hand shot out to wrap around his arm, the grip painfully tight. His eyes shot open to find Takanori very close to him again, concern written plainly across the vocalist’s pretty features. He noticed then how dangerously close he had come to falling over, and while he wanted to shake the smaller man’s hand off his aching bicep, he let himself be guided back to lean against the frame again without protest.

“I’ll go get the car and drive it around back,” Takanori said, finally loosening his hand.

“Taka, I’m fine--”

“You can barely stand,” the vocalist chided, “It’s fine. I’ll go get the car and call you when I’m by the doors so you don’t have to walk so far. You can rest until then.”

Akira opened his mouth to protest again, but his lover was turning and walking down the hall before he was able to speak. He knew his voice wasn’t strong enough to shout out to the younger man now that Takanori had clearly made up his mind. He knew firsthand how hard-headed the other could be when an idea struck, and it was apparent--although hard to admit to himself--that he really didn’t have the strength it would have taken to walk all the way to the car.

“I swear, the two of you have sex in every possible public place we happen to inhabit for longer than twenty minutes.” Kouyou’s voice rang from inside the room and he turned his head to see the guitarist leaning against the counter, a cigarette in one hand, bag slung over the opposite shoulder. He didn’t have the heart--or maybe it was the shear humor in the situation--to tell the younger man that he and Takanori had just been occupying the chair directly to Kouyou’s left.

“It was all his idea,” he rasped out instead.

“I don’t doubt it.”

The taller man turned away from the mirrors to regard Akira, brow raised in what the bassist thought to be confused concern.

“ ‘The hell happened to you?” Kouyou moved slowly back over to the door, eyes paying particular attention to the bassist’s haggard form.

“ I‘m little beat up.” He replied, shrugging. “Taka’s going to get the car.”

Kouyou just rolled his eyes again, an action he seemed particularly fond of that night. The guitarist didn’t say anything more however, about the obvious implications of Akira and Takanori’s rather sudden, harsh encounter.

“Shit, I’m exhausted,” the younger man said, and he nodded in agreement. He sighed “You sure your ok?”

“I wish people would stop asking me that, I’m fine”

The guitarist threw his hands up in defeat, “Okay. I’m leaving you alone. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He walked past the haggard bassist.

Akira grunted in return and watched his best friends head towards the exit. Kouyou passed by the band’s drummer, waving causally. The bassist’s gaze switched from the blonde to the unsuspecting brunette at the far end of the hall. Yutaka’s eyes widened, his hand flicking in a small wave of it’s own as he made his way down the opposite end, heading toward the front entrance, near Akira.

There was a sudden twinge in his stomach, very much like the feeling he got earlier when Takanori had kissed him. Similar, but at the same time very different. With Takanori, Akira felt adrenaline, drive, sexuality. When he looked at Yutaka, the feeling was warmer, more at ease. All the bassist could think was what it would feel like to have the drummer’s arms wrapped around him, to have the sweet smell of Yutaka’s cologne fill his lungs, to be loved by the younger man.

It was new, this feeling, not one he was used to, and frankly, it was a little frightening at times. His heart would skip a beat at the very idea of being closer to the drummer, and then very suddenly flutter uncontrollably when the man would look his way.

Akira didn’t understand the sudden change of attitude. He closed his eyes, confused, trying to shake the image of Yutaka from his mind. He had a boyfriend, and despite their differences, one which he loved. The bassist did not understand why his mind wouldn’t stop wandering the way it had been these last few months.

“Okay, are you ready?” Takanori’s voice jolted the blonde to awareness. He looked next to him and saw the vocalist standing there, holding out a supportive hand. He smiled weakly and nodded. “What were you looking at?”

The bassist glanced back down the hallway and realized that the drummer had already left. A small feeling of hurt passed though his body, because he hadn’t wanted Yutaka to leave. He wanted to be with him. He stared for a moment, his mind still able to make out the lines of the drummer’s body as it had passed him in the hall, where Yutaka had walked by him without pause to even acknowledge him.

He told himself to stop thinking about the newest band member, to focus on the man from whom he never should have let his mind stray.

He looked back at his boyfriend and sighed, “Nothing… Lets go home.”

He forced a smile and began to walk towards the parking lot, accepting Takanori’s offer to half carry him there. As he was sliding into the passenger seat of the car, his last thoughts of Yutaka were forcefully pushed from his mind.


	2. Swallow The Anxieties

Matsumoto Takanori swung open the heavy door that led into a darkened hotel room. He carefully guided Akira into the room before he flipped the nearby light switch. An artificial, yellow light poured over piles of clothing and shoes that sprawled across a good portion of the floor. The vocalist shut the door with a small click and quickly rushed to his lover’s side, making sure he didn’t trip on any of the numerous obstructions.

Akira batted a hand at Takanori’s arm.

“I can walk.” He stumbled on a rejected pair of shoes that had been thrown in his path.

“Your doing a great job convincing me of that one.” He sighed in relief as the bassist finally reached a point where he could fall on to the soft surface of the mattress in front of him.

He looked over the older man, his eyes traveling to his neck. Blotchy patches of bluish-purple were starting to appear in a ring around his throat. The vocalist bit his lip and looked away. It was never his intent to cause Akira lasting damage. He sighed and forced himself to crawl next to the bassist, not believing that he fully deserved to touch him at the moment.

His thoughts were abandoned the moment Akira’s dark eyes opened, searching his face in the glow of the lamp. The blonde moved to turn onto his side, a warm hand wrapped around the vocalist’s wrist, the grip limp, tired.

“You’re tired,” he commented, knowing that the bassist would stay awake as long as physically possible.

“What was your first clue?” The older man’s eyes fell shut again, his head coming to rest against Takanori’s shoulder, his breathing deep.

But the vocalist could still hear the wince of pain when Akira tried to swallow heavily.

His fingers ran over the discoloration on the bassist’s neck lightly, barely a brush of skin against skin. The muscles beneath his fingers tensed. He quickly jerked his hand away, replacing it instead with his lips, kissing one of the more concerning bruises softly.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Akira replied, “I don’t mind so much really. It was worth it.”

“I shouldn’t have—“

“Will you stop treating me like I’m going to fucking break or something? I’m alright. Really. And I’ve never come so hard before in my life.” The bassist smiled ruefully, raising an eyebrow.

“You just have a death wish,” Takanori said, leaning forward to capture the other’s lips with his own.

He pulled away a moment later, watching the contented expression that crossed over Akira’s face as the bassist let himself relax against the bed. He’d seen that look before.

When he’d walked back into the arena after getting the car. He’d told Akira he would call him, had said that he would wait in the back for the bassist to walk to him, but he’d figured the older man had still needed help walking after their encounter. He could only imagine the dizziness the other must have been suffering. And Akira had been right where he’d been told to stay.

Except, instead of looking exhausted, as he well should have, the bassist had the same contented look as he had in front of him now. The only difference was that it hadn’t been Takanori then, it had been Yutaka.

The vocalist thought about the bands new drummer, there wasn’t anything about the man that bothered Takanori; aside from the constant optimism, he wasn’t a bad guy. There was just something about him, something about his presence sometimes that made Takanori weary. At first he thought it was something he would just get over, that it was a personal thing that he would learn to forget about. It wasn’t until later that he figured someone else into the equation.

Akira.

He started observing different behavior patterns in the man, especially when the drummer was around. He’d almost instantly seen the signs that Akira was interested. The look he had that night was another thing to add to the many reasons Takanori should be suspicious concerning his lover’s loyalty.

He took in a long, overdrawn breath and picked his next words carefully. “Aki,” the bassist grunted in recognition of his name, “Do you think we made the right decision in making Yutaka band leader?”

The older man’s nose wrinkled at the question, obviously not understanding and when his eyes opened, Takanori saw the unsurprising confusion written in the questioning gaze.

“What are you talking about?”

“Tonight, when we… decided… that Yutaka was going to be leader. Do you think we made the right decision?” he asked with a raised brow.

“Why are you asking this now? You said you wanted him to be leader earlier, didn’t you? When we were all standing there?” Akira’s voice was growing more hoarse with each passing word, and for a moment he almost felt bad for bringing the subject up.

“I know that, but—”

“So why are you bringing it up again?”

“I just want to know what you think.”

Akira sighed heavily, rolling onto his back and crossing his arms over his chest. His head fell back against the down pillow and his eyes closed. For a moment, Takanori thought that the bassist was just going to ignore his request, maybe even ignore him altogether and just go to sleep. It was painfully quiet in the room now, the silence thick and surrounding. His ears rang.

“I don’t know,” the older man finally said, shrugging a shoulder as well as he was able, “I think Yutaka will be good as leader, he already practically acts like one anyway. A title only adds effect.”

“So… you like him.” Takanori nodded to himself, watching as Akira’s eyes shot open as his words lingered in the air between them.

“Yeah,” the bassist agreed, “I do like him.”

Careful not to let his lover see the way his jaw clenched at the sound of those words, he turned and stood from the bed. He pulled his arms through the sleeves of his dark hooded sweatshirt, letting it fall to the floor without a care.

“Thought so.”

“Is it a bad thing,” Akira asked, “that I like him, I mean?”

“I never said that, Akira.” He pulled his wallet from the pocket of his jeans, laying it on the table.

“But that‘s what you’re implying, isn’t it?” The bassist’s voice was growing in volume, and Takanori was certain that if he hadn’t bruised the older man’s throat so badly earlier the tone would have turned accusatory.

“Just… go to sleep, Aki, you’re exhausted.”

“You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

The words stopped his slow trek toward the bathroom, and he pivoted, turning to face his lover again. Akira had sat up and was glaring at him from the bed.

“You’re jealous that I may actually want to be friends with him.”

Takanori chose not to grace his lover’s accusation with a response, just stood and watched as Akira shook his head, almost as if forgetting his dizziness completely for a moment.

“I’m not talking to you about this right now.”

“Then stop talking and go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Fine!”

“Fine.”

When he was certain the older man would lay back down and not try to chase after him, he turned and continued on to the bathroom. He didn’t stay long, just doing his usual grooming before bed.

Taka hesitated slightly before crawling into bed next to the sleeping bassist. Guilt surged though him for purposely getting the man to react, but the emotion was quickly replaced by the uneasy feeling that his suspicion was even better placed than he had originally thought. He sighed and turned his back to Akira, falling asleep and allowing himself to forget his emotions, leaving them for the morning.

 

-o-

 

The first thing Yutaka noticed the next morning, aside from the stream of annoyingly bright light shining directly onto his face, was that every muscle in his body ached with surprising intensity. He lay sprawled atop the small bed furthest from the door, his hip and shoulder digging into the mattress painfully. His brow furrowed in frustrated exhaustion, long lashes fluttering against his cheeks before his eyes opened and he was instantly assaulted by the sun that had obviously risen some time ago. He winced, hissing a curse under his breath.

It was early, though not too entirely so.

He moved slowly to sit up, his eyes shutting against the protesting pain in each of his muscles as he worked them. His legs burned, his back felt stiff and hard, but his arms were aching adamantly. He heard his joints crack, his vertebrae pop all the way down his spine, the bones in his neck almost seeming to rub together.

But through the pain, he’d never felt better in his life.

Yutaka let a smile spread across his lips. His eyes closed and his head fell back. He lost himself in a pleasant reverie of the night before, of the months leading up to it, and of the long years he’d spent working toward this dream.

In the aftermath of anxious excitement, he was able to fully appreciate all that had happened.

“Close the curtains, will you?”

The voice was hoarse and tired, coming from behind him. Yutaka turned to see Yuu’s head poking out from the white blankets that he’d curled into the night before, dark eyes concealed, mussed hair sticking up in odd places from his head.

“Thought you were asleep?” The drummer asked, easing off his bed to walk over to the window, deciding to follow the man’s direction, if for no other reason than his own comfort.

The guitarist pulled the blanket over his head.

“I am asleep.”

“Ah.” Yutaka stretched his arms over his head, standing on his toes, pulling the muscles throughout his body as tight as he could. He released with a sigh and hopped lightly on the white carpet. He looked around the room, searching for a pair of discarded jeans that he could pull on to wear down to the lobby. He figured that, as band leader, it was his responsibility to make sure that everyone was awake with enough time to pack and leave by check-out. Of course, Yutaka would have anyway.

He spotted his pants lying on top of a neat pile in the corner of the room. He’d forgotten that he’d taken the time last night, long after Yuu had gone to bed, to pack all of his things save an outfit for morning and his toothbrush. He had even managed to take a shower before his body gave out on him completely. He took in a deep breath, proud of himself for his hard work and the pay off it was bringing.

He glanced over at Yuu’s side of the room, clothing in one heap, hair product and assorted make up in another. He laughed to himself as he remembered watching his friend throw the items about his side of the room the night before. He didn’t quite understand it at the time, but now he figured Yuu would wake up with just enough time to shove the two piles into their proper bags.

He walked past the ‘sleeping’ man and exited the room. He was half way down the hall when he’d realized that he had forgotten to grab a hotel room key. He sighed, telling himself that Yuu would let him in when he got back, he wasn’t going to let his usual forgetfulness dampen his good mood.

He spent a few minutes finding the provided continental breakfast in the labyrinth of badly-carpeted rooms. After a short internal debate concerning whether or not to bring Yuu something back to the room, he finished his toast and extraordinarily weak coffee and made his way back to the room empty handed.

Yuu answered the door rubbing his face.

“Why didn’t you take a key?”

Yutaka scratched his head, he didn’t like to admit that he forgot things all the time, it was embarrassing to him. Yuu rolled his eyes, answering his own question. “Why did I even ask?”

He moved away from the door, heading directly into the bathroom.

“I don’t mean to.”

“No one means to forget things.” The sound of a flushing toilet muffled the last bit of his sentence. “That’s why most people write themselves a note, or have someone remind them of things.”

“I do write things down,” Yutaka protested, “but then I lose the papers. And I never remember to have people remind me of things, so that never works.”

“Sounds like you’re fucked.”

He grunted in reply, following Yuu further into the room when the older man wandered out of the bathroom, running calloused hands through his hair.

“So, why the hell am I up this early?” The guitarist asked, throwing himself onto his bed lazily and turning his gaze to Yutaka as the drummer sat across from him.

“I don’t want to be packing stuff at the arena all day,” was the easy reply. Yuu nodded in agreement.

“Well, I guess that means I can go shopping before we go out tonight?” The guitarist sighed, his eyes closing and his arms stretching above his head. “You are coming with us this time, right?”

“I said I would think about it.”

“No thinking required Uke, you’re coming. Taka and Akira are always all over each other and Kouyou’s always smashed by the second hour, I need someone intelligent to talk to after they all ditch me. Besides, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink… anything.”

“That’s because I don’t.” Yutaka grabbed his large roll away suitcase and wheeled it to the hall, leaving it outside the door. He returned to grab his smaller bag, which contained only what few things he would need before heading back to his apartment for the night, grateful that it would only take him about a half hour to drive there.

“Yutaka, you have to come.”

The drummer had rather hoped that Yuu had decided to drop it. He didn’t want it to be pushed any farther.

“Why?”

“You’re our leader now. Come on you’ve only been to, like, four parties with us since you became a member,” the guitarist checked the number in his head before continuing. “and that was a year and half ago.”

Yutaka sighed in defeat, “Fine, I’ll come.” Yuu smiled. “And I’ve been out with you guys more than four times.”

After one final sweep of the hotel room, Yutaka grabbed his stuff and started toward the lobby to load his things into the car he had rented the day before. The drummer was about half way down the hall when he heard Yuu yell from the door to their room.

“What?” He stopped and turned.

“Forget something?” The guitarist held up the man’s brand new cell phone from its charm. Yutaka sighed and cursed under his breath and stalked back towards the man. “I swear one day you’re going to forget that you’re our drummer.”

“Shut up.” He snatched the phone and went back to his things. Yuu laughed and followed him.

Yutaka approached the front desk and slid their room keys across the Formica countertop. She giggled lightly.

Quite to Yutaka’s dismay, he turned to find the lobby empty, save Yuu. He took his cell phone from his pocket with a sigh, deciding who to call first. He smiled.

It took a few tries to get an answer, but he was ready to stand there all day. Eventually Kouyou picked up the phone and yelled into it. “I’m awake. I’m getting my stuff downstairs. Now kindly fuck off.” Yutaka smiled. On to the next.

It only rang twice before Akira answered, “Hello?” his voice sounded raspy, like he was on the verge of losing it.

“Akira are you okay?” Yutaka felt a wave of concern wash over him. It bothered him to hear his bandmate in such a state, more than it probably should.

“Yeah…” Akira coughed on the other end, “Yeah, I’m cool….Taka and I are on are way down.”

Yutaka gave a quiet okay and closed his phone. He looked over at Yuu who was a seated in one of the lobby chairs, smoking a cigarette, his hand pressed against his forehead.

“Hey…everyone is on their way down. You want to ride over to the arena with me? Most of the crew is already there.”

Yuu shook his head, “Nah, I’m waiting for Kouyou, we’re sharing a rental because our apartments are so close to each other.”

Yutaka nodded, though a little disappointed and headed out to his car.

 

-o-

 

Collectively, it took very little time packing up their equipment at the arena once everyone had arrived. Between the members and the staff that hadn’t already returned to their homes, they were loading up the last of their instruments. Yutaka’s newly purchased, highly expensive cymbals lying neatly in his backseat, all before the sun had risen to its peak.

Yutaka did one last sweep of the arena. He wanted to make sure that everything was left they way they had found it. After thanking everyone for their help and assuring them that Akira’s neck wasn’t serious and that the bassist was going to be fine, the drummer joined his bandmates, all of whom were congregated in the parking lot near their group of cars.

“We all clear, Leader-san?” Yuu asked when he walked up to them. He and Kouyou were seated on the hood of his car.

“Clear.” He nodded.

“So what time are we meeting up tonight?” Yuu asked

Kouyou shrugged. “Ten?”

He looked around at the rest of them to see if they agreed with the time. No one seemed to object. “OK…ten. You guys know where to go. I have shit to do, so Yuu, if your coming with me, we’re leaving now.”

Yutaka raised an eyebrow and looked at Yuu. “You’ve been hanging out with Kouyou an awful lot here recently…You two’ve become the replacement them.” He pointed a finger at Akira and Takanori, who had been uncharacteristically silent for the majority of the day. Yutaka smiled and shoved at Aki playfully, trying to get a reaction out of him.

He responded with a shallow smile, one that quickly disappeared after meeting Takanori’s gaze.

Yuu glared at him. “He’s the only person I can talk to about the women I want to fuck.”

Everyone but Kouyou grunted with disgust at the man’s comment. He grinned and followed his fellow guitarist to their car.

“Well…I’m going to go. Maybe find food, I don’t know,” Taka said, a little awkwardly, before glancing at Aki. “Are you coming?”

Akira’s expression lightened a little. Yutaka figured that whatever disagreement they had been in had blown over. It was then that he realized that the two of them would probably want to be alone, which left him alone. He sighed heavily.

“We’ll see you later Yutaka.” Akira waved as they walked towards their car.

The drummer waved back as a courtesy, he really didn’t enjoy the idea of being by himself for three hours. He started for his own car when his cell phone rang. He answered it without looking to see who it was. He was surprised to here Yuu’s voice on the other end. “They ditch you?”

“Yeah.”

“Figured they would. You know what car we’re driving?”

“Yeah.”

“Follow us, we’re hungry as hell.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” Yutaka could tell that Yuu was rolling his eyes on the other end. “Are you okay with hanging out with straight men?”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m good, thanks. We’ll see you at the restaurant.”

“Later.” He hung up the phone. He felt a little better about going to the party that evening. At least Yuu would be enjoying his company.

 

-o-

 

The heavy bass beat against Yutaka’s ribs, causing his heart to jump in time with it, and his fingers to tap against the glass that had been shoved into his hand. The three of them sat toward the back of the tiny box of a club, away from the glaring multi-colored lights. The air smelled of alcohol and smoke, sweat and perfume, too many people gathered in too small a place. But no one seemed to care much.

Yuu sat to his right, chain smoking and talking animatedly with Kouyou. Yutaka had lost track of their conversation long ago, opting to just let their voices mingle with those of the many others’ surrounding him. The guitarist would turn to him at times, look him over with a raised eyebrow--as if daring him to leave--and ask if he was having a good time. He figured the older man was the closest he’d come to having a real friend since joining the band.

Across from him, Kouyou was staring into his drink, appearing philosophical for a moment and chuckling at something Yuu was saying about one of the girls they had seen walking in. Yutaka decided that he would attempt conversation.

“What exactly is it about women that attracts you?”

Kouyou raised an eyebrow. “What, like, physically?”

“Yeah. What about them is most attractive to you?” Yutaka took a sip of the mild ale Yuu had ordered for him, he quickly spat it back in the glass.

“That was expensive,” Yuu yelled above the music.

“And disgusting.” Yutaka held up his hand, getting a servers attention. He expertly ordered a drink with much harder liquor. Both Yuu and Kouyou’s mouth dropped in surprise.

“What?”

“I thought you said you don’t drink.”

“I don’t,” he said, “anymore.”

Kouyou leaned across the table toward Yuu as if to tell him something secret. “I told you no one could be that happy without liquor.”

“You guys didn’t answer my question.” Yutaka tapped the side of his new drink.

The blonde guitarist shrugged his shoulders.

“I really like ankles,” Yuu admitted.

Kouyou was in the middle of taking his drink as he nodded in agreement. “Yeah, and right here,” he said, trailing a finger from the hollow below his ear to his collarbone.

“What about you?”

“The same.”

“Really?”

He nodded.

Yuu leaned closer in his chair. “Wow.”

“Have you seen a women naked before?” Kouyou asked abruptly. “And your mother doesn’t count.”

Yutaka’s eyes narrowed in confusion. He couldn’t believe he’d been asked such a question. Kouyou was only on his fourth drink, and the man could hold his liquor.

“Yeah. Probably more than you have.”

Both guitarists laughed. “Doubt that.”

“Doubt that highly, Yutaka.”

“Why?”

“We have sex with women.” Kouyou blinked.

“Exactly, women don’t open up to you guys as quickly because they’re afraid you’ll just take advantage of them. They want to know that you’re not just thinking about sex and you’re actually interested in their company before they let you see anything.” He paused, taking in the looks of complete concentration the men in front of him had on their faces. “They think of gay men like people they can talk to. So they can get away from all the girly gossip without the fear of someone asking them out or trying to hit on them. So naturally they have no problem undressing in front of us or asking which bra looks better with what pair of underwear.”

“You’re lying.”

Yutaka shook his head.

Kouyou sat back in his chair, closing his mouth and shaking his head. “That’s not even fucking right.”

“You asked.”

“I don’t even know you anymore,” Yuu said, turning away from him and taking another sip of his drink. Yutaka just laughed.

Kouyou downed the rest of his drink in one swallow. Yuu had been right about the other guitarist earlier. It had taken little time for the blonde to drink himself into a pleasant haze, his eyes glazing over somewhat, his cheeks warm with color. But the alcohol had only served to further calm the older man. He had watched as Kouyou had grown steadily more relaxed as the time went by.

Now, however, when the man glanced around him, his movements were quick, determined, albeit slightly dazed.

“Where the fuck are Aki and Taka,” he asked, his words slurred somewhat, but still noticeably separated. “I haven’t seen them since, like, we got here.”

“They’re probably making out outside or something… or fucking in the bathrooms, or upstairs, or in the upstairs bathrooms.” Yuu’s reply was lazy, unconcerned, speaking as if he thought his words should have been very obvious.

“Oh.” Kouyou’s thumb and forefinger came up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Images, man, images I really don’t need.”

“Not as if you weren’t thinking the same thing.” Yuu shrugged.

“Maybe they’re having crazy make-up sex in Takanori-kun’s car.” Yutaka suggested, gauging the effects his words would have the guitarists, waiting for Kouyou to act as if the mere thought of his friends together pained him.

But it never came. Instead, the blonde’s hand stilled in it’s path to bring his fresh drink to his lips, honey eyes gazed at him over the rim of the glass, questioning him with their intensity.

“What do you mean?”

Yutaka stuttered, completely caught off guard by the sudden change in the other man. He pulled his arms down under the table, fingering a loose thread in his jeans in nervousness while he thought the words over in his mind.

What did he mean?

He had only meant to jab at the guitarist’s obvious sensitivity to his friends’ relationship, but it seemed as if he’d tapped into something he probably should have left alone.

“They…” he bit the inside of his cheek, trying to voice his thoughts adequately, “I don’t know, they just seemed… distant… earlier. Like they had gotten into a fight or something.”

“That’s interesting,” Yuu chimed in, sounding as if he found Yutaka’s words anything but what he’d described them as.

“I didn’t notice anything.” Kouyou leaned heavily against the table, a pensive look crossing his features. “They left together today, didn’t they? And they showed up here together?”

“It was at the arena,” Yutaka said, “they just looked uncomfortable, like they didn’t want to be together.”

“But they left together.”

He shrugged, and a contemplative silence fell around them for a moment. Kouyou sipped absently at his drink. Yuu lit another cigarette.

Yutaka got the distinct feeling he didn’t belong there anymore.

“I’m gonna go outside for a minute,” he said, sliding off the chair.

The two guitarists nodded in acknowledgment but didn’t speak and Yutaka slipped easily away from them, feeling, with each step, as if the air around him was somehow getting lighter. He walked quickly, his legs carrying him to the doors without his having to even really think about it.

He fished out a pack cigarettes from his jeans pocket, sliding one out and slipping it between his lips. His hands shook, withdrawal from nicotine and his nerves getting the better of him. Yutaka hated the feeling he got after he hadn’t smoked in a while, it always served as a reminder that he was actually dependent on an unnatural chemical. Pushing the thought from his mind, he lit the cigarette, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply.

The night air was cool against his face, a pleasant relief from the smoky, humid air inside. He rested his hand on one hip, toying with the idea of taking off right then. He suddenly remembered why he usually opted to stay home when Yuu and Kouyou organized such outings.

Inhaling deeply, he allowed his eyes to fall shut, his lungs to fill with noxious air. He held the cigarette between his teeth, blowing smoke around it. He took a few aimless steps, trying to clear his head, and came to rest against a telephone pole near the corner of the building. His limbs still tingled with anxiety and his chest still burned with the alcohol he’d consumed. He needed to get away.

“I don’t know why you’re bringing this up again, here.”

His eyes shot open, hand coming up to grab his cigarette and flick ashes to the ground behind him. He wasn’t sure where he’d heard the voice coming from, but it had sounded distinctly familiar. Brow creased, Yutaka stepped forward a few paces, until he could see around the building, to the back.

“I didn’t bring anything up.” Takanori’s voice would be forever burned into his brain, and he knew, before he saw the short man leaning against the building, that it was him.

He was unsurprised to find Akira standing only a few feet away from the vocalist. The older man had his arms crossed over his chest, a look of disbelief written on his face. He was facing Takanori, clearly unhappy with whatever it had been that the shorter man had said moments before Yutaka had come across them by accident.

If he had had any doubts about their distance earlier that day, this shattered them completely. And while he felt a little like he was eavesdropping, hearing things he really wasn’t meant to hear, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Akira, whom he didn’t run the risk of spotting him now.

“I thought we were finished with this earlier. I thought we got over this.”

“I asked you a question, Akira. It’s not like I attacked you.”

“And I gave you an answer. Jesus, Taka, what do you want me to do? Lie to you?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Akira stood shocked for a moment, staring wide-eyed at his lover. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, shaking his head. When the bassist spoke again, his voice was much softer.

“You’re drunk.”

“You’re only saying that because you know what I said is true.”

Akira turned then, towards the back entrance of the bar, hand poised to grab the handle to swing the door open.

“I’m not doing this right now. I’m going back inside to find Kouyou.”

“That’s it, run to Kouyou for help. He always protects you from everything. No, you know what, I’ll just go get him for you.” With those words, Takanori pushed himself away from the wall, passing Akira before the bassist was able to get to the door and walking into the bar.

Yutaka watched as Akira let his hand fall to his side again, a pained expression crossing his features as the door closed behind Takanori, concealing the other man, cutting off any retort, reply or apology he may have wanted to mutter. He saw the bassist open his mouth to inhale deeply and close his eyes against what he presumed were threatening tears. He watched, eyes narrowed in confusion and he was suddenly very aware of the grip he had on his cigarette.

The drummer didn’t know if he should approach Akira, unsure of the man’s reaction to him overhearing. Ultimately, Yutaka’s instincts overpowered the part of him that wanted to leave Akira alone. He causally walked out from behind the building, throwing his cigarette on the ground next him. The bassist saw him coming before he had organized his thoughts into what he was going to say.

“Yutaka-kun? What are you doing out here?” he sounded surprised and almost nervous.

Yutaka smiled halfheartedly. “The guys were talking about girls.”

“Yeah, that can be a pain.” Akira staggered a little, trying to maintain balance. It was clear that he had had his fair share of alcohol that night.

“Is everything okay? I mean, I saw Takanori-kun run inside pretty quick.”

Akira scoffed. “Yeah, I’ve gotten used to it by now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Taka’s been acting kind of hostile in the past few months. We get into arguments like that all the time. It’s no big deal really, he’ll calm down by tomorrow and apologize.” Akira’s words seemed nonchalant, unconcerned, but his voice belied his emotion perfectly. The bassist was nervous, that much was obvious from the way his body trembled ever so slightly.

Yutaka stared concernedly, crossing his arms over his chest, trying to stave off the chill he had knew hadn’t come from the wind that had picked up around them. Akira mimicked his action, though where he had done it only out of habit, the bassist’s movements had seemed to have a different purpose behind them. He watched in disgusted fascination as the older man seemed to shrink in front of him, arms wrapping around his waist in an attempt to protect himself. But from what, exactly, Yutaka didn’t know.

“Have you tried talking to him about it?” He asked, the logical part of his mind kicking in, taking charge.

“A few times,” Akira shrugged, “but… it’s not going to do anything, he’ll still get angry. I might as well just deal, I can’t really do much about it anyway.”

He wasn’t sure why, but hearing those words coming from the bassist’s mouth--tone dejected, defeated--caused Yutaka’s hands to fist in anger, his eyes to narrow in thought. Akira would risk his own happiness, stay with a man that made him shake with anxiety, live with months of hostility, argue, fight, make up, apologize, argue and fight again? It seemed a sad existence to him, and it made him angry that Akira felt he had to deal with it.

Was Takanori blind? Too wrapped up in his problems that he couldn’t see he was hurting Akira? Too drunk now to know that his proclaimed lover was standing outside, seeming to barely hold himself together? Did the vocalist not notice that Akira was hiding?

“I’m sorry.” His thoughts were broken by Akira’s words, and he looked over to see that the blonde had regained some of his composure. “I didn’t mean to involve you in anything.”

“It’s… it’s alright,” he replied, waving the bassist’s apology off, “you just kind of surprised me.”

“I’m sorry.” Akira repeated softly, though he knew he needn’t answer.

“What are you gonna do now?” He asked instead.

Akira shrugged, “Probably get Kouyou to let me stay with him. I don’t think Taka really wants company tonight and I didn’t drive.”

Yutaka noted the way the bassist swayed on his feet.

“You probably shouldn’t drive anyway.”

“Yeah, your right,” He scratched the back of his head and tightened the band around his nose.

“Why do you wear that?”

Akira looked up with a certain innocence to his face, “I don’t really remember how it came to be my trademark, but I have to keep it up.” He smiled.

Yutaka shook his head and started towards the noisy bar again. He’d expected the bassist to follow, but after a few paces he realized that the blonde hadn’t moved. “Are you coming?”

He nodded apprehensively and sighed, “I really don’t want to piss Kouyou off.”

Yutaka opened the door and held it for the older man, the smell of alcohol and smoke wafting into the night air. “Why would you make him angry?”

“He had plans tonight.”

“Oh,” Yutaka felt sorry for the man walking front of him. His boyfriend was already angry with him, more than likely for no reason at all. The last thing he needed was for someone else to be cross with him. The drummer bit his lip, not sure if what he was about to do was a good idea or not, but none the less he called after the bassist, “Akira-kun.”

The older man turned.

“You can ride home with me tonight if you want. That way you wouldn’t have to ask Kouyou.”

Yutaka gave a small grimace of a smile, his heart racing wildly. He wanted more than anything for the man to say yes, he didn’t care if was just because he was afraid of the other blonde or whatever the reason. As long as Yutaka could spend more time Akira. The bassist stood still for a moment, thinking about the proposition. He looked back towards the table where Kouyou and Yuu were still sitting, deep in conversation. Akira looked back at the brunette, his eyes a little lighter than before.

"Okay."


	3. The Only Kind of Flattery is that which is Sold Through a Knothole

“You sure this is okay?”

Yutaka glanced over to the passenger side of his car, where Akira was seated. The bassist was slouched in the seat, appearing much shorter than normal. He shook his head at the almost nervous way the man had asked the question.

“Of course it’s okay,” he replied, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the street, “I wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t.”

“Yes, you would have.”

“What?”

“You still would have offered, even if it wasn’t okay.” Akira looked over at him, black eyes finding his and Yutaka felt his stomach lurch. “You just… seem like that kind of person.”

The words were spoken so matter-of-factly, that he knew, even if they had been untrue, he would have believed them. The tips of Akira’s mouth were curved into a smile, one that seemed genuinely happy, for the first time that night.

He could feel his face heating up, and he chuckled to cover up his nervousness, returning his eyes to the road.

“How… how’s your throat?” He asked, hoping to change the subject, grabbing at anything he could think of quickly.

“Fine,” the older replied, though Yutaka could still hear the vaguest twinges of rasp in his voice. “The alcohol helped.”

“I’d imagine.”

The silence that followed was awkward. He could tell, although impaired with alcohol, the man across from him was just as nervous as the drummer was himself. A small butterfly started flying in his stomach.

Yutaka glanced away from the road trying to read the bassist’s face. The blonde looked serious, staring down at his feet, eyes pensive, his overall expression one the drummer had never seen before in Akira. The man sighed, casually pulling the silk cloth from his face, allowing it to fall around his neck.

The drummer could feel his heart race.

He was beautiful.

He allowed his lungs to expel a breath he hadn’t been aware he had been holding, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. His heart pounded against his ribs erratically and his arms were shaking once more.

He didn’t know what the man had been thinking, staring up at the lights of a city that never fully shut down, that never slept. He had not been able to gauge the emotion that had played across those perfect features, and had not even begun to imagine breaking the obvious peace that surrounded the bassist. Because, for a time, the silence wasn’t thick, didn’t need a reason.

Yutaka fully believed that Akira was reason enough for anything at that moment.

“Thank you.” Akira’s voice was soft, barely audible, but Yutaka heard the words just the same. “For everything.”

“It’s no problem,” he replied, keeping his own voice as steady as he was able.

He chanced one last glance at the older man before pulling into his apartment’s parking lot.

He pulled into one of the empty parking spaces near the back doors of the whitewashed building, feeling rather embarrassed that he didn’t have some place nicer to take the other man.

Akira rolled his head to look at Yutaka, “You don’t live on the top do you?”

The drummer smiled and shook his head, “No, you only have to climb to the second floor.”

“Yay.”

The two of them got out of the car, Yutaka locked it and started for the cast iron steps that scaled the outside of the building. He kept a close eye on Akira behind him, the last thing he wanted was the bassist to fall trying to get up a flight of stairs. Upon reaching the floor Yutaka unlocked the door and allowed the older man to walk inside with him trailing.

The light in the apartment was dim. He directed Akira to his couch sat in the room directly in front of the door. Yutaka made his way to the small linen closet that was placed next to his bedroom, grabbing a pillow and blanket for the man to use.

When he reentered his living room the bassist had already taken off his shirt, exposing this chest. Yutaka’s head swooned slightly, heat gathering around his face, an uncomfortable twinge forming from inside his jeans. He composed himself and continued his approach.

“Here’s a blanket.” He avoided looking the man in the eyes, “If you’re hungry you can see what I have, though it’s probably not much. I’m going to bed. I’ll take you home in the morning.”

He turned and headed toward his bedroom, hoping to get there as fast as he could.

“Wait.”

He turned around, and without notice the bassist placed a hand against his cheek. Without hesitation, Akira pressed his lips to the drummer’s.

Yutaka was overwhelmed with the intensity and suddenness of the action, losing control of himself entirely. His nostrils flared, the hair on his arms and neck stood up. He felt as if he was experience a kiss for the first time in his life, his desperate desire for Akira was being satisfied in a way he never thought would happen.

He moaned loudly and leaned into the kiss, taking Akira’s face with his own hands, pulling him in closer, more aggressively. Without breaking the bond between them the drummer pushed his weight onto the bassist’s chest, knocking the both of them onto the couch near by. Yutaka’s hands snaked there way up the toned, naked muscles underneath him, their warmth making him more vocal than he was before.

Yutaka couldn’t remember the last time a kiss had made him act in such a way.

He felt Akira moan against his lips, a low guttural sound that emitted from deep in his chest making the body beneath his own vibrate. Fingers slipped up under the hem of Yutaka’s shirt, dancing across the skin of his back before taking the cotton into their grip and pulling it up. He allowed their connection to break for a moment sliding his head and arms out of the material, waiting for the bassist to toss it to the floor before bringing their lips back together.

His own hands wandered down the man’s abdomen again resting on the button of the blonde’s jeans. His lips trailed from the bassist’s mouth to an ear, sucking the lobe between his teeth, reveling in the sound he received in response. With expert ease, he popped the button open with a flick of his thumb, tugging at the zipper. He grasped the older man’s cock with one coarse hand, pumping slowly and dipping his tongue into Akira’s ear.

“Yutaka…” His name fell from Akira’s lips as easily as if they had been doing this for years, and his voice—sinful, achingly beautiful—only served to urge Yutaka further.

The drummer kissed the bassist’s defined jaw, moving down to one of the darkened marks on his neck. He hesitated slightly, his lips brushing the soft, fine hair above the bruise before he leaned in to kiss it. The rhythm of his strokes picked up before he abruptly released the older man’s erection. Yutaka smiled as Akira whined in protest.

“Don’t stop.” The drummer was struck by the power of the bassist’s eyes. The dark irises blending perfectly with dilated pupils to make them appear almost as small pools gazing up at him.

He ignored Akira and pulled his hand away from the other’s body. The drummer wrapped his fingers around a wrist and pinned it down against the couch.

His mouth returned to the bassist ear, lips grazing the shell, breath ghosting across it as he spoke. “You’re beautiful.”

He ground his hips down against the blonde’s, eliciting yet another whimper that made his head spin. He let his hands trail down Akira’s arms, blunt nails dragging across tanned flesh, leaving angry red lines in their wake. His fingers, when met by the rough fabric of the bassist’s jeans, hooked under the waistband and tugged. He lifted Akira’s hips to help ease them off, leaving the man exposed beneath him, clinging desperately to his back.

His hand returned to Akira’s cock, his thumb catching some of the liquid that had pearled at the head. The bassist’s hands moved, threaded through his dark hair, bringing their lips together again. He moaned into the kiss.

He could feel the blonde tensing beneath him, writhing under his touch, all undulating hips and heaving chest. He nipped at Akira’s bottom lip and received a surprised gasp-moan in response. The older man tugged on his hair painfully.

Akira’s eyes were closed, squinted shut in an almost pained expression. The man hissed every time Yutaka would run his calloused hand over the blonde’s erection. Sweat had started to bead at his hairline, dripping down the length of his neck. The drummer could only describe the expression as pure bliss. Akira was biting at his lip with bruising force in an attempt to stifle the moans that threatened to spill from them.

Yutaka dipped his head, placing a soft, almost absurdly chaste kiss to the older man’s collarbone, before trailing his lips up to kiss just under the defined jaw.

“Please…” Akira begged, “Yutaka…”

The bassist wouldn’t have to ask again. The drummer wrapped muscular arms around the blonde’s neck, pressing their mouths together. While he had the other man distracted, Yutaka rolled toward the arm of the couch, effectively switching their positions, forcing Akira to sit on top of him. The bassist tried to pull away from the embrace, an attempt that failed. Yutaka wanted to make sure the older man knew he was in charge.

Yutaka’s erection was pressing hard against his snug fitting jeans, pleading for exit. Akira must have felt it underneath him because he carelessly fumbled at the button. The alcohol was clearly impairing Akira more than the drummer had originally thought.

Perfect.

Akira wanted him. And judging by his actions, he had wanted him for a long time. The drummer’s head swooned at the thought of the bassist having the same secret emotions he did.

After a few moments struggle, the bassist accomplished his goal and Yutaka’s pants were in a small heap underneath them. Akira pushed himself up to his knees, grazing the tip of Yutaka’s stiff cock. The drummer eyes narrowed as an almost sinister smile appeared on his face. He immediately grabbed hold of the bassist’s protruding hips and held him over his erection. Without warning Yutaka forced himself inside Akira, releasing the pent up strength he’d kept restrained until then.

The bassist moaned lewdly in surprise. Yutaka continued to thrust upwards, hanging on to the other’s hips to keep him from falling to either side. The drummer hadn’t thought it would take the blonde long to realize the rhythm he was creating. Akira was using his powerful thighs to lift and thrust at the correct moments.

Yutaka leaned his head against the blonde’s chest, pushing with all his strength. The warmth of the bassist around his throbbing cock sent a shudder of pleasure throughout him. It paired with the overwhelming passion of being in control, causing the drummer to moan Akira’s name loudly. Sweat traveled down both men’s bodies as they continued the constant beat of the thrusts, allowing their natural talent to guide them.

Yutaka lifted his head again, this time look up at the bassist. They stared into each other and for a small moment in time they where one. Their breathing became a constant between them, their bodies rocked together in perfect timing. Yutaka felt as if the world stood still, as he stared into the black eyes of the man in front of him. Yutaka’s eyes squeezed close as he spilled inside the bassist, he felt the warmth of Akira’s own release on his bare stomach.

Akira collapsed on top of the drummer, his breathing heavy, and rested a sweaty forehead on Yutaka’s shoulder. The younger man laid his head on the back of the couch, holding the blonde as close as he could. An image of Takanori ran though his mind; he wondered if the vocalist would ever know what had just happened. He shook it away. It didn’t matter anyway. The only thing that mattered to Yutaka was that Akira was with him, in his apartment, on his couch.

Akira was his.

 

-o-

 

“No, he’s asleep on my couch… I brought him home with me last night because he was drunk…”

The words were muffled, like he was hearing them through a thick layer of water or glass. They flitted into his sleep-muddled mind, not lingering long enough in his cerebrum for him to fully comprehend what was being said. He figured, however, with the limited knowledge of his own whereabouts and the smell of stale alcohol that surrounded him, the person was probably speaking of him.

What had he gotten himself into this time?

He groaned at the way his head spun when he tried to move it, forcing his neck to rotate. Light instantly assaulted his eyes when he opened them, blurring his vision for a moment before he squinted through it, sending a sharp pain through his brain as the room around him came into focus.

He was laying on a couch, black, and suede, sprawled on his stomach with his feet just barely touching the end. Across the room, a small television had been turned on, a news broadcast playing softly as background noise. The early sunlight--probably not as bright as his aching head thought--reflected off pristine ivory carpet, clean white walls.

He must have been too drunk the night before to really notice the room…

Or maybe something else had been distracting him?

“I don’t know when he’ll wake up, he’s out cold now…”

The voice was coming from another room, behind him, but close by. He felt his stomach tighten in recognition when the man continued speaking, though the words were unclear.

Yutaka.

A wave of nausea hit him and he sat up quickly, his hand flying to his mouth. It had to be a mistake, a dream that was so real he just hadn’t remembered it wasn’t yet. He shook his head, trying to ignore the obvious signs, his jeans on the floor next to him, an ache in his lower regions like he’d never felt before, and most of all the overwhelming aroma of sex that remained on the blanket wrapped around his naked body. He poured over the events from the night before, trying to make sense of what was happening.

Yutaka had shown up at the bar the night before, even though he had been sure the drummer would have stayed home like usual. The man had then proceeded to overhear part of his argument he’d had with Takanori, consoling him afterwards, talking and giving advice, like a friend. Then the brunette offered to take Akira home, so he hadn’t had to ask Kouyou.

It had been a complete contrast to the way the drummer had ignored him after the show Friday.

He had been happy, his heart fluttering wildly as he had followed Yutaka to the car, sitting quietly in the passenger seat all the way back to the other man’s apartment. He’d watched the city pass by, enjoying the pleasant silence that had settled between them. He’d swallowed nervously when Yutaka had pulled into the parking lot, guiding them to the second floor apartment.

But that had been where his attention had ceased to stay focused on anything except the man he had been with. He remembered Yutaka telling him to sleep on the couch, that if he was hungry he could help himself, but that the drummer was going to go to bed. And the younger man had handed Akira a blanket, a simple, innocent gesture that any kind, hospitable person would offer.

But the way his whole body had jolted when their fingers had accidentally brushed--an easily ignored trace of skin on skin contact---was anything but simple and innocent, and he’d been unable to control his urge to kiss the other man.

Akira closed his eyes, the rest of the memories flooding back to him. It wasn’t a dream. He couldn’t even deny that he had wanted it; he had wanted the other man so badly it had hurt.

He heard footsteps from the narrow hall, quick, measured, determined. His heart raced in panic, and his head snapped up, eyes wide, searching--in vain, he knew--for a quick escape. He didn’t want to see Yutaka at the moment, didn’t want the inevitable confrontation that would bring. He needed to get away, needed to think, needed to distance himself from the situation, though it seemed almost useless now.

Things had already turned dangerous.

He stood, the blanket falling from around his waist, reaching for his discarded jeans. He was quick to slip his legs into them, pulling them up and around his hips before the drummer was entering the living room.

“Oh, Akira-kun, you’re awake.” Yutaka sounded surprised, and when Akira turned to regard the man standing in the doorway to the hall, he noted the way the drummer ran a hungry gaze down the length of his body.

“Hey… Yutaka-kun,” he said, his own eyes falling away, frantically scanning the floor for his shirt. “I didn’t keep you from your own living room too long, did I?”

“No, you’re fine,” the drummer replied.

“Oh, okay.” He knew his voice did little to conceal his nervousness, and he was sure the drummer was able to hear his pounding heart from across the room.

His hands were shaking.

“Are you alright?” Yutaka was moving toward him now. He spotted a splash of blue amongst the white and black and dove for it, coming up with the cotton t-shirt Kouyou had given to him a few years back. He’d never particularly liked the shirt--though Takanori had once said he thought the blue matched well with his dyed hair and that he should wear it more often--but he’d never been so happy to see it before in all the time he’d owned it.

Throwing it over his head and slipping his arms through the sleeves gave him a few moments excuse to evade the drummer’s question.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he responded when he finally turned back to the younger man, running a hand through his mussed hair. “I just… I forgot that I told Kouyou I’d meet him at his apartment this morning to go over… something… and… I’m already late… so…”

The words were flying from his mouth, the lie forming in his brain. He knew Yutaka must have seen right through him, but he didn’t have the energy to deal with that at the moment.

His only thoughts were those of escape.

But as he moved past the drummer, headed towards the front door, a strong hand grasped his wrist, stopping him cold. The connection was familiar, felt just as heated and passionate as it had the night before, when the brunette had been using it to force his wrists above his head.

He closed his eyes against the onslaught of memories.

“Akira… wait.”

If the apartment hadn’t been so quiet, Akira probably would not have heard the drummer speak. But the words made his breath hitch, nonetheless.

“I’m sorry,” the brunette continued, seeming confident that he was listening, “for last night, I mean. I don’t know what happened, what came over me.”

Slowly, Akira turned back around, his eyes meeting Yutaka’s for the first time that morning. A thought began to form in his mind.

Did Yutaka… regret it?

“What do you mean?”

Confusion instantly settled over the drummer’s features, brows pulling down in a frown.

“What? You… don’t remember?”

He inhaled, relief washing over him, though that was short lived.

Akira knew that it was cruel; what he was about to do could be described as nothing less than manipulating. However, his need to get away from the situation with Yutaka hadn’t diminished in the slightest with the apology. If he could just be alone, if he could just think.

If Yutaka wasn’t suffocating any and all of his logical reason.

He saw his loophole, and he jumped at it.

“No,” he said, trying to sound as innocent as he possibly could, “I don’t remember. What happened?”

He watched the light in Yutaka’s eyes die, and he had to fight not to swallow too heavily in guilt. The drummer looked away from him for a moment, the confusion only growing stronger.

“Uhm… nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

He sighed in relief. Glad that the younger man wasn’t going to push the issue, though a small part of him had been wishing for Yutaka to protest, to demand that he remember their activities during the previous night.

The grip on his wrist loosened before falling away completely. He was free to go.

“Thank you, Yutaka-kun. For letting me stay.”

The door was closing behind him when he heard the muttered reply.

“Anytime.”

 

-o-

 

It didn’t take but a few moments of wakefulness for the inevitable splitting headache to send it’s signals to the center of Takanori’s brain. The pain struck him like a blow to the chest, he gasped for air as he instinctually raised a hand to his forehead, as if it would aide him in ridding himself of discomfort. It continued like a freight train, making its way down his body without trouble, causing the man’s fingers to twist up in clumps of hair that weren’t still hardened from the night before. At last, after almost a minute had gone by the pain subsided to a dull throb centered at the back of the vocalists’ head.

“Shit,” he murmured to himself. He stood up slowly from his lop-sided couch and headed to the small bathroom located at the rear of his small Tokyo apartment. Takanori didn’t even bother looking at the dosage directions on the bottle of aspirin he’d grabbed from the counter. He threw a couple pills in his mouth, forgetting about water.

“That’s the last time I do that for a while.” He looked at his frazzled appearance in the mirror.

His eyes bloodshot with traces of smudged eyeliner accented by black semi-circles that lay beneath them, paired with slightly pink checks and unkempt hair. Takanori’s overall appearance reflected his activities the night before.

Until looking at the damage he’d done to himself the night before, the vocalist had little memory of what, exactly, had happened at the party. Some of it came back in spurts, a sentence here and there, images of girls flirting and rubbing themselves all over him and Akira.

Akira? The memories of their disagreement came flooding back to him with a greater intensity that he had felt during the actual incident.

“Fuck.” He stumbled back into his living room turned bedroom and started to search for his cell phone. Upon finding it, Takanori wasted no time in dialing the bassist’s phone number. He waited as the sound of a dial tone filled his ears. After three rings a voice came from the other end, but it wasn’t the one the vocalist was expecting.

“Hello?” it sounded familiar to Takanori, but he could quite figure out why, “Matsumoto-kun?”

He was caught off guard by the sudden mention of his name, “Who are you? How do you know my name?”

The man from the other end laughed, “Oh…it’s Yutaka. Guess I should have said something. Your name came up with the number.”

“Uke?” Takanori’s mood darkened slightly with the news, “Why are you answering Akira’s phone?” He barely tried to mask the irritation in his voice. It didn’t make sense that he should be talking to the drummer in the first place.

“He left it at my house. I saw it was you and I wanted to make sure it wasn’t important.”

“At your house? What… Where’s Akira?”

“I don’t know…he said something about going to Kouyou’s, I think… I don’t really remember.”

“Why was he at your house anyway… don’t you live out close to Kanagawa?”

He laughed again. Takanori really wished he would stop doing that. It was obnoxious how chipper Yutaka could be, when all the vocalist wanted to do was drone out whatever he said. “Well… he needed a ride last night, after the party. Kouyou was doing something with Yuu… and he couldn’t drive himself anywhere. He was to drunk to give me directions to his apartment, so I just took him home with me.”

Takanori’s nostrils flared slightly after hearing this. Akira had stayed at the drummer’s house? A ball of jealousy began to well up in the pit of his stomach.

Through gritted teeth, he responded to Yutaka’s statement, “Ah… well, if you see him before I do, will you tell him his boyfriend would like to talk to him?” He was sure that Yutaka could hear the resentment and aggravation in his voice, but he didn’t care anymore.

“Yeah, I’ll be sure to.”

“Thanks… bye.”

Before the drummer got in a word, the phone had snapped shut in Takanori’s hand. His head throbbed a little more intensely. What the hell was so special about Yutaka anyway? Why did the drummer have the ability to affect him the way he did? It didn’t make sense to the vocalist.

He cursed again.

He threw his phone against a cushion on his couch and stumbled into the small kitchenette that was attached to his living room. He filled a small iron tea kettle with water and set it on his electric stove top and walked back to his couch, turning on the TV to whatever channel he had it on last.

It happened to be the local entertainment channel; some kind of music variety show was on. He recognized the hosts; he had met them before. They were talking about the year’s newest artists and how they would last in the future. Talk about music wasn’t really what Takanori had in mind. He was trying to forget for a moment that he was in a band with four other people.

He was trying to focus his thoughts on Akira, not as the bassist in his band, but as his boyfriend. He couldn’t help but feel like he was fucking up his relationship with the other man.

He’d noted the way the blondes brown eyes would drift to Yutaka during interviews and even when they where having band meetings. How Akira’s attention would be completely wrapped in the drummer for long moments, an emotion that resembled wishful contemplation settling over his face. It had been a long time since that same look had been turned to Takanori.

It had been awhile since Akira stopped to gaze at him at all.

Takanori’s worst fears were coming true. Akira was falling for Yutaka. His Akira was falling away from him for their drummer. He knew, then, that that was the reason behind his resentment for the leader.

He sat in silence for a moment as the TV station tried to fix whatever audio problem they had run into while he hadn’t been paying attention. He didn’t care why the bassist had decided to flock to the drummer, just that he had, and Akira was crazy if he thought the vocalist was going to give him up without a fight.

He sighed again, glancing over at the clock that hung above the television as he turned it off. It left an eerie black screen, distorting the images it reflected. He reached for the small grey notebook that was set on the end table next to him. He could almost here the voice of the band’s new manager in his ear, pleading him for the finalized lyrics to the song he was working on.

Takanori knew that it had been a smart move to sign on with this new company, but he couldn’t help but be annoyed with the constant pestering their new manager had a knack for doing. What the hardest thing for him to understand was why he needed to finish the new song so badly. The band had already recorded three new songs to put on the next single. Even harder to understand was the reason they needed to put out a single and then another one a month later. Leaving the mysteries of the crazed label company with major failure issues behind him, he shook his head as he opened a few pages in his notebook.

There, he had made random scribbles of notes about certain words that went well together and thoughts he knew he wanted to incorporate in this new song, which he’d been trying to write for quite some time.

He knew why it was difficult to find the right emotion for it’s lyrics, had known from the start he wanted the song to be about Akira. It was how the bassist was portrayed that was proving to test him. He thought about their current situation, he could feel that something was happening between the two of them, something he wasn’t entirely sure he agreed with.

His thoughts drifted to a scenario he didn’t want to accept, but somehow knew he would eventually have to. Akira was going to leave him. Takanori felt his heart sink, as the thought became made itself more and more into reality in his imagination. Words flushed into the lyricist’s head. All at once, they gathered, giving him little time to organize them, to write them down.

“Ashita wa kitto kaette kite kureru kana*”

He stared at the script blankly, re-reading it several times before placing his pencil back on the table. He moved his feet to the cushions of the couch, bringing the pad closer to his face. He read how the new line flowed with the few others he had already written, impressed that it didn’t need much tweaking.

A sudden burst of emotion washed itself over Takanori’s body, causing him to feel weak and lightheaded. He was almost positive it was because of the truth in the words that he had written. He had taken Akira’s happiness with all of his suspicious comments and distrust.

His eyes began to well up with moisture; he hadn’t the energy to tell himself not to cry. Instead, the vocalist, didn’t move, he could hardly even blink, allowing the tears to come and fall like raindrops down his porcelain cheeks. He had driven the other man away, past a point where Akira wouldn’t come back.

He had lost the only person he thought he could love.


	4. In a Moment of Sympathy

“You’re going to put yourself in the hospital.”

Shiroyama Yuu ignored the comment as he poured himself another cup of coffee. He took a sip from the stained mug, closing his eyes as the near-scalding liquid ran down his throat, warming his entire body. He could instantly feel his muscles loosen, and he let his head fall back, the cracking of his vertebrae filling the room.

“What makes you think that?” he asked a moment later.

“That’s, like, your fourth cup of coffee in twenty minutes.” Yuu shrugged, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear, placing it between his lips. “And that’s your fifth cigarette in an hour. Jesus, Yuu, are you trying to give yourself lung cancer?”

Yuu rolled his eyes and shot a look of annoyance across the room. He hadn’t been counting and he found it marginally disconcerting that the other man was paying so much attention. “You smoke too.”

“Yeah, but mine last at least a couple of days. You smoke three packs a day.”

“So, what’s it to you how much I smoke?”

The blonde shook his head. “Nothing, I guess. Am I not allowed to care about you?”

The older man touched a hand to his chest in mock compassion, “Do you really?”

Kouyou moved his attention back to the newspaper he was reading. Yuu smiled, pushing himself away from the counter and taking a seat at the small breakfast table between the kitchen and living room of the blonde’s apartment. He watched as the blonde rubbed his temples with two battered fingers, obviously still feeling the effects of the night before. Yuu found himself growing more thankful that he had appointed himself the designated driver. Had he not, he feared that Kouyou may have woken that morning to nurse his hangover, and God knows what other injuries, in a hospital room.

He looked around Kouyou’s comfortable apartment, his thoughts wandering to the numerous nights he’d stayed there to get away from the eyesore that was his current roommate. It had served to bring the two guitarists closer. Their relationship was unique, Yuu knew, but regardless he was grateful for the friendship he shared with the man.

Band practices wouldn’t be the same if the only people he had to talk to were the fuck buddies and Yutaka.

He cared for the drummer, really, but sometimes Yuu wished the younger man would take a break. The younger man ran around like everything had to be in his control, like it was his duty or something. And that was before the man had been declared their leader.

The more he thought about it, he realized that they all needed a little down time, something that had been scarce during the tour. It wasn’t the traveling that bothered him, more the lack of time he had to himself. Yuu couldn’t remember the last time he had taken time to reflect solely on himself, without any outside distraction. He missed the times when the band could focus less on technicalities of a tour, when they could concentrate on more important things. Things like music.

Music was Yuu’s life, always had been, and he knew that it would take a lot to change that. He also understood that the frantic planning, limited sleep and constant pressure to keep up with the other four men was part of making it in the music industry. He just had to make sure he didn’t lose sight of what was really important to him in the process. Yuu had known too many good musicians that lost their passion because of media or some other kind of drama.

He glanced down at the brown liquid inside of his cup, his reflection a dark silhouette in the murky water. The past few years seemed so surreal to him. He wasn’t used to his hard work actually paying off. He smiled as a warm feeling washed over him again.

He brought the porcelain to his lips again, his skin cracking from the heat coming off it. The steam distorted his image of Kouyou over the rim. He watched the blonde pour the rest of the coffee down the sink and rinse out the pot, moving on to the other dishes that had been stacked up during their absence. His actions seemed fatigued, giving Yuu the impression that he’d have given anything to go back to bed, if only for another hour.

Despite his body’s complaints, Kouyou had been talking about all of the things he needed to get done around his apartment the night before, so it was probably best that he was awake and working off his hangover. He gripped the side of his head again, wincing in pain.

Kouyou had a tendency to drink more than he anticipated.

“Have you taken anything?”

“Half my weight in fucking aspirin.” The blonde leaned against the counter. “Coffee helps a little.”

“Jesus, Kouyou, how much did you drink last night?”

The guitarist sighed, his hand pulling away from his head for a moment, “I don’t even know how the fuck I got home last night.” His eyes met Yuu’s. “You didn’t total my car, did you?”

Yuu laughed, opting not to reply to the obvious jab at his driving. He fumbled though his pockets and pulled out a small red lighter, lighting the cigarette that hung loosely from his lips. He inhaled deeply, blowing smoke into the already fogged air. The nicotine seemed to sink into his nerve endings, settling the involuntary twitches in his hands that hadn’t been bothering him as much since the band’s tour ended. He closed his eyes, letting the chemical take it’s effect.

The abrasive sound of Kouyou’s chair legs scraping across the floor quickly brought Yuu back to reality. While the blonde normally had very expensive taste, his furniture was an awful testament to it. Yuu had never gotten used to the bulky, outdated pieces that the guitarist kept.

But when wasn’t Kouyou a contradiction unto himself?

A soothing silence fell over the two, broken only by the occasional sip of coffee or exhalation of cigarette smoke. Yuu loved that they could sit at the small table together, enjoy the morning, aware, but not thinking about their daily stresses.

The sounds of the busy city leaked in though cracked windows, a constant white noise that had became a comfort to them both. A definitive peace had settled around them.

He was again pulled away from his thoughts as Kouyou’s phone danced around on the table in front of him, the sound of its vibration filling the room. He glared down at the black device, an overwhelming urge to throw it against the nearest wall, or out the window into the street below swelling up through him. The blonde, however, appeared to be only mildly surprised at the noise.

“Are you going to get that?”

“Yutaka did say we were off for a few weeks, right?”

“I thought so.”

Kouyou’s hand moved slowly over the table, reaching for the phone. He brought it up to his face, reading the small print on his caller ID. Yuu had never seen the man’s eyes roll so far back into his head.

“What could he possibly need this early in the morning,” the younger man said, flipping the top of the device open and holding it to his ear, “What?”

Yuu took another sip of his coffee, which was slowly beginning to cool, listening to Kouyou’s voice. His eyebrow raised, making it obvious to whom he was talking even before a name was said. “Of course, I’m fucking awake, Aki, would I have answered my damn phone otherwise…? Do you know what time it is? It’s eight thirty… No, I’m not kidding. Did you not notice a clock between your bed and my fucking apartment?”

Kouyou paused for a moment, listening to the faint voice on the other end ramble frantically about something that Yuu could only imagine wasn’t as important as the bassist was making it out to be.

The blonde stood, a hand threading though his hair and pulling slightly before he disappeared into the hall and toward his front door.

Yuu laughed softly to himself, shaking his head. He knew first hand how talkative Akira could be. He had made the decision long ago to never question the bassist directly unless he was prepared to hear the complete and unabridged history connected to the answer.

It didn’t take long for the blonde to return to the kitchen, tossing his phone unceremoniously onto the table and throwing himself heavily into his chair.

“What did he want?”

“To see if I was awake,” he sat up straighter in his chair, “and to see if it was okay that he came over, which I thought to be a bit useless, seeing as he was outside.”

“Did you let him in?”

“Yes, is that okay?”

“It’s your apartment, not mine.”

The blonde nodded and took a deep breath; Yuu could tell that the man was not in a physical or mental state to deal with the turmoil that Akira usually left in his wake. Kouyou looked up as the door to his second floor apartment slowly swung open.

Yuu was expecting Akira to run in, blurting a hurried explanation about some wonderful thing he had discovered the night before, the kind of behavior he associated with women, if he were to be honest. Instead, the bassist dragged his feet across the carpet, his eyes following them. He closed to the door with a soft click. “Sorry.”

“For what?” The edge hadn’t quite left Kouyou’s voice; the aggravation still thick on his tongue.

“’Cause I didn’t make sure it was okay before I came over.” He looked up, his eyes pleading. It was clear the bassist was upset, and everything about him bled apology. He stumbled further into the apartment, still dragging his feet.

“Akira, you know I don’t really care.” Kouyou rolled his eyes, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and threading his fingers through his hair once more. “Now, what’s wrong.”

“Do you think we could talk,” Akira’s eyes glanced at Yuu for a moment before quickly looking away, “alone?”

“No.”

The bassist look taken aback, his mouth working several times before he spoke again. “Please?”

“No, my head fucking hurts and I’m not moving.”

The bassist’s face contorted in frustration, his eyes shifting from place to place as if he were lost and had no clue what to do next. Yuu was becoming increasingly confused as these events unfolded before him. As long as Yuu had known him, Akira had always had a knack for making the best out of really dreadful situations. To see him so upset caused the older man’s gut to twinge in apprehension. Whatever had happened after they left the party the night before was serious.

“Kouyou…” Akira’s eyes pleaded with the other man. The bassist took a few steps toward his friend, fingers curling around the guitarist’s slender wrist, tugging gently, his voice taking on a more anxious tone. “Just…please, come outside?”

Kouyou raised an eyebrow and pulled his hand away from blonde. “What could have possibly happened in the nine hours it’s been since I last saw you?”

The bassist bit his lip, averting his eyes to an unseen spot on the adjacent wall.

Yuu took a deep breath, his voice coming out gently, but prodding. “If you want me to leave--”

He was cut off when Akira mumbled something under his breath. Both he and Kouyou looked at each other, hoping that the other would have heard what he’d said.

“What?” Kouyou ventured.

“I slept with Yutaka.”

Although his voice had grown only slightly in volume, both guitarists had heard.

Kouyou’s eyes widened, his brow furrowing. “Excuse me?”

Akira’s face screwed up in more frustration, his gaze moving from the wall to the ceiling. “I slept with Yutaka!”

“I heard what you said.” Kouyou placed a tired hand on his forehead, closing his eyes. “Why?”

Yuu just stared in confusion, his mind flailing to wrap around that single revealing statement. He hadn’t known Yutaka had left with Akira the night before, thinking the bassist had stumbled after Takanori as always.

“Wait a minute…” He said, his own brow raising. The other men looked over at him with interest. “Aren’t you…and Takanori-kun…you know…”

The bassist eyes widened, his hands coming up to cover his mouth. It appeared that he had also come to the realization of what, exactly, it was he’d done with Yutaka. Yuu felt his heart sink a little, he hadn’t meant to upset the man further. He cursed inwardly. He was always speaking without thinking; always had to voice what was already understood.

Moisture started to gather in the corners of Akira’s eyes, falling in small beads down his cheeks as he backed up against a nearby wall. His gaze became blank, and his head shook in small denying motions as he slid down the wall to sit on the floor.

Yuu glanced over at Kouyou, who looked flustered and even more tired than he had fifteen minutes ago. Yuu imagined it must be difficult having a best friend like Akira. The bassist was always getting himself into predicaments, most of which weren’t intentional, or even his fault. The man was just a trap for misfortunes, and unfortunately for Kouyou, he had to be there to help Akira out of it every time.

A new respect for the younger man filled him. He knew that Kouyou cared for Akira more than he was willing to admit. It was obvious that the blonde man felt a bond towards the bassist greater than any Yuu had experienced. Even with his family, the guitarist had always felt somewhat disconnected. The fact that Kouyou had stuck by Akira’s side for so long was amazing to Yuu. Almost inspiring.

His thoughts were broken by the sound of a soft sob coming from the other side of the room. Kouyou’s attention was broken from whatever he’d been looking at on the floor and he walked with quick, measured strides to his friend’s side. He crouched next to the other man, running a white hand down his cheek. Akira looked up from his arms, eyes meeting Kouyou’s for a moment before burying his face in the crook of the younger man’s neck.

“Why do you do these things to yourself?” He ran his slender, calloused fingers though the bassist’s hair. Akira didn’t respond with anything more than an incomprehensible sob.

Yuu’s eyes met Kouyou’s and he motioned to the door, silently asking the blonde if it would be a good time to leave him and Akira alone. He really only did it out of courtesy for the other man, the truth being he had been planning to leave anyway. He just figured it would have been the most polite thing to do to somehow let Kouyou know that he respected the bond between the other two and that he knew they needed to be alone for a while.

Kouyou nodded, smiling, almost as if he was thanking Yuu. The brunette rose slowly from his chair and made his way through the apartment to an overflowing bag of personal items that had traveled from his own apartment to Kouyou’s at least half a dozen times in the past week. He sighed to himself, a parasitic feeling washing over him. He couldn’t help but fear he was a burden to the younger man. It didn’t matter how many times Kouyou insisted that he understood, Yuu felt sometimes that he should just learn to deal with his roommate, however horrid a human being he was.

He grabbed a few folded bills from his wallet and his Suica* card before turning towards the door. He gave his friend a final apologetic look and left.

Head swimming with new and surprising information, Yuu let the cool spring air clear his head. He wasn’t sure what to think of it all. He shook it off, however, focusing his thoughts on the next matter at hand.

He wasn’t certain exactly how he was going to face Yutaka, but he had made plans with the drummer over a week ago, it would be rude of him to suddenly cancel due to an ironic setback.

 

-o-

 

The drummer tapped rhythmically on the small cast iron tabletop as he waited the arrival of his coffee date. He glanced around the small, busy café, watching the people around him, chatting happily or hunched over a book to cram in last minute study time. Yutaka sighed, wondering what his life would be like if he followed the university route.

He would never have been able to feel the rush of emotions that washed over him when he was on stage. His popularity would have been nearly non-existent. He would have looked different, normal, and he would have been lost in the crowd like countless others. Fame would not have been a word with which he would associate himself.

And he definitely would not have kept the same company.

“Oi!”

Yutaka was startled by the harsh sound coming from the person next to him. He looked up to see that Yuu had finally arrived, though nearly fifteen minutes late.

“What were you looking at?” the guitarist asked, taking a seat opposite the drummer.

Yutaka looked at him, confused. “What? Nothing. I was just spacing.” He smiled.

The guitarist raised an eyebrow. “Whatever.”

By the time Yuu was finally settled with his jacket thrown over the back of his chair, a handsome waiter had appeared at the table, prompting the new arrival to indulge in one of the daily specials.

“I’ll just take a coffee,” Yuu said.

The waiter scribbled the order on a piece of paper and looked at Yutaka, asking the drummer if he would like another refill on his own beverage. The drummer smiled and politely declined. The waiter--Yutaka hadn’t been able to see a nametag--gave him a small nod and moved on to the other tables.

“Another?” Yuu asked, his eyebrows disappearing behind the oversized sunglasses resting on his face, “How long have you been here?”

“An hour or so.”

“What? I’m not that late… am I?”

Yutaka laughed and shook his head. “No, I just got here early.”

Yutaka could tell that the guitarist was staring at him in disbelief though the tinted lenses.

“I needed to get out of my apartment for a while,” he added, trying to keep his voice steady, free from the anxiety beginning to itch at his senses.

He hadn’t lied. He had wanted to get out, but the feeling had been far more urgent than the drummer was willing to let on. He had been driving himself crazy, replaying the images in his mind of the night before every time he looked over at his couch, where he knew Akira had been resting only hours before. He needed some air to clear his head.

“I’ll never understand you, Yutaka-kun.” Yuu commented, shaking his head for a moment before his attention was drawn away by something that Yutaka knew was far more pleasant to the guitarists eye.

A petite hostess placed a small cup in front of the guitarist, warning him that it was extremely hot. Yuu smiled at her, making her cheeks rouge slightly from embarrassment. Yutaka rolled his eyes as she walked away.

“You’re going to run into trouble acting like that.”

“What?” Yuu attempted to sip the scalding liquid, only to be spit it back into the cup. He cursed following closely with a series of erratic hand gestures toward his mouth.

Yutaka laughed again. “See, you weren’t even paying attention when she told you it was hot.”

“Shut up.” The guitarist grabbed a napkin to wipe off the excess coffee that had dripped onto his designer shirt. “She was hot.”

Yutaka rolled his eyes again. “And you say you’ll never understand me.”

“Hey, it’s natural for men to think that women are attractive, okay?”

“Not when your nearing twenty-seven and she doesn’t look a day over sixteen.”

Yuu sat back and crossed his arms, scoffing in defeat. “She was at least eighteen or nineteen.”

The younger man shook his head in disbelief, his gaze catching the guitarist’s through the dark lenses of Yuu’s sunglasses.

“So, what did you do last night,” Yuu asked, tone curious.

The suddenness of the words caught Yutaka off guard, his heart missing a beat. “W-What?”

“After the party, what did you do?”

“What makes you think I did something?” Yutaka defended, cursing inwardly at his quick retort, knowing it wouldn’t help in convincing the guitarist of his innocence.

Yuu looked suspicious. “Well, at first, I just meant ‘what did you do when you got home’, but now you have to tell me what else happened.”

Why couldn’t he have just kept his mouth shut?

Yutaka made a mental note to work on that.

“It… It was nothing,” he stuttered, growing more frustrated with himself by the minute.

“Bullshit… you’ve already practically admitted to something, now you have to tell me what you did.”

“Nothing happened Yuu-san.”

“Again, bullshit, and how many times do I have to tell you to stop using ‘san’. You act as if we haven’t been running around the country together for the past two years.”

Yutaka adverted his gaze, heat gathering around his cheeks. He couldn’t keep up with the lie, not when Yuu already knew that something was wrong. There would be no convincing the other man otherwise at this point. He sighed, bracing himself for the guitarist’s reaction.

“I… I…”

Yuu nodded for him to continue.

“I slept with Akira last night.” He winced, expecting Yuu to be horrified by the news.

But the other man’s reaction was the farthest thing from what the drummer had been ready for.

“No shit?” Yuu asked, chuckling a little.

Yutaka’s brow raised in confusion. “You don’t sound nearly as shocked as you should.”

Yuu shrugged.

“With my friends, nothing is ever unexpected.” The older man smiled, a gesture that made Yutaka feel a little better about what had happened. He had been spending more of his time convincing himself that what he had done was awful, that he had taken advantage of their bassist, but the guitarist made the whole thing appear almost normal.

“So what does Aki have to say about all of this?” Yuu continued, taking another sip of his coffee.

Yutaka looked up guiltily. “I don’t know.”

“You’ve talked to him, haven’t you?”

“Yuu, the last thing I said to him was something about how fucking amazing he was.”

Yuu closed his eyes. “Oh… man, I could have really done without that image.”

Yutaka glared at him.

“So, you haven’t said anything about it to him?”

“No.”

“You should really do that.”

“You don’t think I know that? What the hell am I supposed to say, Yuu? ‘Hey, Akira-kun, remember last night when I brought you to my apartment and went on to take advantage of the fact that you were completely trashed to pacify my own sexual frustration?’ ”

Yuu shook his head, sighing heavily. “I doubt that’s how it went exactly. Just go to his house and say ‘Hey look, we fucked, what to you want to do about it?’ ”

“What if he tells Takanori-kun?”

Yuu was silent for a minute. Yutaka could only guess it was because the older man didn’t have anything extremely witty to say to that. He didn’t know how he could handle Takanori knowing about what he did. The relationship he had with the vocalist was somewhat different than those he had with the other members. After all, it was Takanori that had invited him to join the band to begin with.

He felt dirty with betrayal; traitorous.

“I don’t think he’ll tell Taka.” Yuu said after a moment, his tone serious.

“Why not?”

“Because I think that he’s just as messed about this as you are.”

The drummer looked up his eyes begging for certainty.

“Yutaka, just trust me. The best thing you can do is talk to him. I promise you won’t regret it.”

Yutaka sighed, taking the last sip from his coffee, which had been cold for the better part of ten minutes.

“You’re right.” He agreed, though hesitantly. “I really shouldn’t let this linger too long, it could effect the band. We’ve all worked too hard for it all to be ruined by a drunken one night stand.”

He smiled, trying to keep up the façade that he thought positively about everything. In reality, it took almost all of his energy to remain calm in times of chaos, but he knew that he had to do this for everyone around him.

His band mates. The staff. They were all depending on his ability to lead. He couldn’t let his own emotions get in the way of that.

He nodded again, mostly to himself. He had made a mistake, one that, if left alone could potentially jeopardize all that he considered important now. And it was with that knowledge that he made his decision.

He had to talk to Akira.


	5. Sway and Waver

Takanori’s phone rang, the sharp polyphonic melody cutting though the silence in his apartment like a knife. Sighing in frustration, he glanced over to the small table beside his couch where the black device was resting. He had been trying to ignore it for a good portion of the day, a task that had proven more difficult than it was worth. If it wasn’t Yutaka calling about extra practices it would be the label officials, tour managers, or costume personnel wondering where the band was and when they would make their next appearance.

The ringing finally ceased, followed shortly by a soft beep signaling a new voicemail. Takanori rolled his eyes, having lost count of how many times the phone had made that particular sound recently. The thought of returning any of these calls filled him with a quiet dread, but still he knew it was a task he’d eventually have to undertake.

He heaved himself to his feet, walking a few paces before grabbing the small device. He flipped the phone open, absently scrolling though the series of missed calls, seeming to find every person he knew except the one he wanted.

He grunted in annoyance.

It had been a week since Takanori had spoken to Akira. A week without knowing whether or not the bassist was alive, let alone still interested in being with him. It wasn’t like Akira to just stop calling him. Even during the worst of their fights, the older man would always try to maintain some contact, however small. But this time, Takanori had been the first to pick up the phone, left confused and dejected when Akira had refused to answer. His stomach lurched at the thoughts that ran though his mind. Though there was no point in hiding from what he knew to be the truth.

Takanori moved back over to a chair he had been sitting in earlier, his phone now safely tucked in his jeans pocket. At the back wall of his living room, between his desk and his coffee table, he passed a crowded bookshelf. It was mostly full of classical literature and poetry books that the vocalist had collected, from which he had gained inspiration. But nestled between his collection of western novels and the rather large Kanji dictionary his father had gotten him for Christmas when he was in high school was a small, rectangular picture frame.

It was a battered, painted metal frame. The stand had been broken several years ago, so that it hung precariously by one brass screw, but did little to hold the picture upright. It was leant against the stone wall behind the bookshelf for support.

He picked the small frame up and took his seat.

His eyes--hazel from the contacts he had decided on that morning--fell over the picture inside. It had been taken a few years after the vocalist had graduated from high school. An eighteen-year-old Akira stood at his left, Kouyou on his right. The three of them looked exhausted staring up at the camera.

He allowed his thoughts to travel back to the day it had been taken.

The three of them had just had their first major gig, which, back then, meant they hadn‘t been playing in someone‘s basement. They were drenched with sweat, black lines smudged under their eyes. Their clothes were hanging from their shoulders, having been patched together with their limited sewing skills. They hadn’t had the quality make up they used now.

Despite the absence of a solid drummer, Takanori remembered how accomplished they had felt that day. They had had a crowd of twenty to thirty cheering them on. The vocalist missed how easy it was back then, to think that his life would just be music, nothing else interfering.

He looked at the image of the young bassist next to him. At the time the picture was taken, Akira hadn’t yet confided in him that he was gay, let alone that he had feelings for the vocalist. They were just good friends in a band, trying to make a statement. He hadn’t thought then that he would ever actually make it.

His mind wandered over the past six months, months that now seemed even more surreal than the rest of his hectic life. He’d never forget the first night Akira had kissed him. It had been after a show, before they’d gone out for the encore. The bassist had walked up to him, short of breath, with a towel wrapped around his broad shoulders, and without any attempt at words, had simply kissed him.

It had just become a mutual agreement that they were dating after that night.

The first few months had been what they were expected to be. The two of them had been giddy, carefree. They were in a casual relationship, agreeing that there were no strings attached. It hadn’t been until about a month ago that they had started having problems.

Takanori placed the picture next to him, pressing his forehead against a warm palm. He knew his temper was an issue. None of the things he’d said to Akira recently had been called for, nor had they been what he’d meant to say, especially under the circumstances he’d said them.

But, when he thought about it further, when he brought all the happenings of the past few months into consideration, he had meant them, in a way.

The truth was, Takanori wasn’t sure if he was ready to give all of his trust to one person, most of all Akira, given the bassist’s experience with past relationships. The vocalist knew he was being selfish, he was afraid to take the next step, but all the while, he wasn’t going to allow the older man to slip so easily though his fingers. He loved Akira, and he wasn’t giving up.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a sharp knock at the front door to his apartment. Takanori looked at it in surprise, having not been expecting anyone today. He grunted, thinking it could possibly be their manger, tired of getting his voicemail.

Using more energy than he was willing to admit, the vocalist forced himself out of the chair for the second time, walking on stiff legs down the hall to his front door.

With one fluid motion, he unlocked the deadbolt, opening the door to the cool afternoon air, bracing himself for what he could only imagine was waiting for him on the other side.

His heart skipped a beat when he caught sight of the man standing before him.

“Akira?”

The bassist didn’t move, his posture still, nervous. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his jeans, his eyes trained to the ground. When he spoke, his voice was meek.

“Sorry, I didn’t call.”

A sarcastic laugh escaped the Takanori‘s lips. “I haven’t spoken to you in days. You think it matters to me that you call?”

He moved to the side, giving Akira room to enter his small home. The bassist’s movements were mechanical, as if he were just going through them by the mere memory of the several times he had done so before. He stepped over the threshold carefully, stopping just inside the doorway.

The vocalist took no time in wrapping his arms around the blonde’s middle, pressing his face against Akira’s back.

“Gomenasai,” he whispered.

At first the bassist didn’t react, standing motionless and in complete silence. But eventually he placed a calloused hand on Takanori’s forearm, wriggling out of the embrace. He turned slowly to look into the vocalist’s eyes for the first time in a week.

Takanori’s brow wrinkled in concern. The man in front of him--his lover--looked completely different than he had the last time the vocalist had seen him. Akira’s hair was in disarray, standing up in odd angles, looking as if the man hadn’t taken a comb to it in quite awhile. Clothes, that were never snug, but had always at least fit the bassist, were falling off his shoulders, dragging the floor under his shoes. His usually warm, thoughtful eyes were gray and tired. Deep, black circles had begun to form under the blonde’s eyes, the skin there speckled red, as if the man had been crying.

Takanori opened his mouth to say something, but was quickly interrupted by the other, “I need to talk to you.”

The vocalist swallowed a hard lump that had formed in the back of his throat. This couldn’t be what he’d thought. He wasn’t ready to have this discussion, wasn’t ready to fight, not yet. He needed time, to figure out what he was going to say, how he was going to fix things. This was all happening too fast, and he’d never felt so cornered, so trapped, in his life.

He looked away, fighting back the rush of emotion welling up inside him.

It took a moment to compose himself, inhaling deeply, before he was able to speak again, keeping his voice level. “What is it?”

Akira took a deep breath and swallowed heavily. It was clearly difficult for the older man to say what was on his mind, what with the way his eyes shifted from one wall to the other, as if searching for the right words in his brain. The vocalist had always thought the other man’s inability to hide his emotions adorable, but he had never expected Akira’s eyes would be reflecting pain. The very thought was heart wrenching.

“I…” the bassist broke off, taking another deep breath, “We… we aren’t… w-working anymore, are we?”

Though the vocalist had known what was coming, the words still caught him off guard, cutting though him like a bullet train. It took a moment for him to fully process them, to let them sink in.

He opened his mouth to protest, snapping it shut a moment later. He was going to think before he spoke this time. It was his rash retorts that had pushed the two of them to the breaking point in the first place, and he wasn’t going to mess it up again now that he had realized that. “What… what are you talking about, Aki?”

Akira’s brow furrowed, and the taller man licked his lips, his arms came up to wrap around his middle in an almost defensive stance. Takanori recognized this look, had seen it too many times in the past to mistake it. Akira was closing himself off, trying to shut his surroundings out. He reached out to grab at one of the bassist’s hands, closing it in a grip that was too tight for the other man to ignore.

When Akira’s eyes locked with his own again, the gaze was thick with confusion. Takanori felt his anger flare up.

“Is this your solution?” he asked, swallowing back some of the feelings that were trying to overpower him.

Akira’s eyes narrowed. “Solution to what?”

“We hit a few bumps and you run?” He kept his voice low, not wanting to sound accusatory. He pulled on the arm in his hand until it loosened from Akira’s middle, wanting, if anything, to pull the bassist closer.

The older man stuttered, his words getting caught in his throat. Akira was shaking his head, almost as if he were denying Takanori’s words. But denying was a quick and easy solution for the bassist, he knew. He had spent too much time with the other man not to have picked up on some of the defenses.

“Look, I know I’ve been difficult lately,” Takanori continued, keeping his eyes locked with Akira’s, “hell, I’ve been nothing short of an ass, and I don’t have an excuse for that. There isn’t an excuse for that. But please, just…”

“Taka--”

“No, I… want to apologize… for everything.” He interrupted. “But please…”

The first of his sobs were soft, choking his words, and he could feel the tears start to make their way down his cheeks. He hadn’t expected to be this emotional, hadn’t expected to be this adamant.

But he also hadn’t expected Akira to mean so much to him now when their relationship had begun either.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his head bowing to press against Akira’s shoulder. He wanted nothing more than to gather the man in his arms, to hold him close like they had before all of this had started. He wanted things to go back to the way they were when he was young and falling in love hadn’t meant pain and heartache.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Please don’t go.”

There was a long moment where neither said anything, and he could feel his resolve breaking further. If Akira would just listen to him, would just hear his words and believe that he was speaking the truth.

“Why?” He could tell it was hard for Akira to keep his voice so level, to not let his tone waver.

“Because,” The words fell from his lips before he was even able to really think about them, they became his only connection to the other man at that moment, the only thing that he thought could possibly salvage their relationship.

“Because, I love you.”

Akira’s arm tensed in his grasp, the words obviously having caught the bassist unawares. His head rose to look back up at the other man, and he wasn’t surprised to find the confusion in the dark eyes staring down at him.

“You… what?”

“I love you.”

He felt certain the older man could hear his heart racing in his chest, it was beating so strongly against his ribcage. Tears were still streaming down his cheeks, and his hands were shaking violently. He watched the surprise flicker across Akira’s eyes, watched as it turned to something he wasn’t quite able to identify. But the emotion was raw and open, and Takanori was hit once more with a rush of violent dejection.

He was cold suddenly, wanting nothing more than to seek out the warmth he knew only Akira could return to him, and he reached up with a trembling hand to run the tips of his fingers down one of the bassist’s cheeks. He stopped to cup a strong jaw in his palm, pleased when the blonde didn’t immediately pull away.

Akira’s eyes closed, and he leaned further into the contact, his lips just brushing the vocalist’s slender wrist. But that was all that Takanori needed, just that brief moment of reassurance and he pulled himself up to press his lips against the bassist’s.

The kiss was chaste, ridiculously so considering their history, but the vocalist wasn’t going to risk being forceful. Not now, when the bond between them was so fragile.

Pulling away, his breath mingling with Akira’s between their lips, he whispered. “Please don’t go. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” was the bassist’s response, arms wrapping tightly around Takanori’s waist, pulling the two of them closer. It was Akira that kissed him then, Akira that forced a tongue past his lips to deepen their connection.

They were silent from that moment, moving carelessly through Takanori’s apartment toward the vocalist’s bedroom. But there was an ease to their steps; Akira didn’t need to be guided down the hall. The bassist knew the layout of this apartment as if it was his own, and Takanori was suddenly grateful for their familiarity. Because, he knew, had this been a new experience, had the two of them needed to keep speaking, it may have broken whatever spontaneity the older man was feeling then.

Akira fumbled with the knob on his door at the end of the hall, barely turning it before the two of them stumbled into the room. Takanori’s hands were making quick work of the bassist’s shirt, pulling it up and over the older man’s head before tossing it to the floor. His lips found the column of Akira’s neck, his tongue tracing one protruding tendon, feeling the vibration of the moan caught in the bassist’s throat. The other’s fingers were tangled in his hair, tugging painfully.

The two broke apart when the bassist’s knees hit the edge of his bed and Akira sat, his eyes opening, his head tilting back to stare up at the vocalist standing above him. Takanori hesitated a moment, taking in the sight of Akira’s flushed skin, his trembling lips, the question in his gaze. His brow furrowed, trying to push back the feeling of foreboding that threatened to consume him. He inhaled deeply, and forced his body to move again, his hands gripping the hem of his own t-shirt and pulling it over his head.

Almost immediately, Akira’s lips were on him, brushing the skin of his chest, breath ghosting across his ribs. His knee came up between the bassist’s legs to rest on the bed and he moved over the other man, a hand gripping blonde hair to pull Akira up so their lips could meet again, the other gripping the bassist’s side tightly.

He felt fingers at his waist, fumbling with the button on his jeans, but he didn’t smack the hands away. He let Akira set the pace, allowed the bassist to undress him the rest of the way, slowly, his jeans falling to the floor to join his shirt. And for once, he was naked--exposed--before the other man, vulnerable in a way he’d never anticipated. But then, this whole experience was stripping him bare, and he knew that it had to be this way, that Akira had to see his trust if the two of them were going make this work.

Fingertips grazed the inside of his thigh, pulling him back to the present, bringing him back to the man sitting beneath him. His lungs pulled in a shaky breath, and his chest hurt suddenly, an excruciating pain shooting through him.

His hands threaded through Akira’s blonde hair, pulling the bassist up to kiss him again. He felt the bassist moan against his lips, the sound only urging him on. He pushed against the older man, causing the both of them to lay back across his bed. From this position it was easier for Takanori to slip his fingers under the waistband of Akira’s pants, to pull them off.

He gripped the bassist’s rounded hips in his hands, moving between Akira’s spread thighs. He wanted to say something, wanted to ask the other man if he was alright. But the lips pressed to his own were unrelenting, and he forgot any words he could have possibly uttered at that point.

And then he was entering the bassist, slowly, inch by agonizing inch, but he would have it no other way now. He wanted this to last, wanted to feel everything in its fullest. He forced his mouth from Akira’s, to inhale deeply, to hold the oxygen that he had been depriving himself in his lungs until they ached. The bassist’s scent was intoxicating, making him feel dizzy, light-headed, and he buried his face in the crook of Akira’s neck.

He lost himself in the heat surrounding him, in the arms that pulled him in closer, in the ghost of a whisper across the shell of his ear, a plea lost somewhere in the sharp intake of breath. Someone moaned, but he couldn’t be sure from whom the noise had come.

They stayed motionless for a moment, and he allowed himself to feel the body beneath his own tense and relax rhythmically. The bassist was positively shaking now, waiting, desperate. He pressed his forehead to Akira’s, letting the tips of his fingers trace encouraging circles on the older man’s skin.

And Akira was nodding, the unspoken question between them having been understood.

His eyes shut tight, closing out everything surrounding them, and they rocked in a harmony they’d perfected a long time ago. They were perfect together, in both body and mind, connected in a way that he knew he’d never be connected to anyone else. And he could feel, in the way Akira was clinging desperately to him, the way the bassist could barely breathe now, that the other man knew it as well. It was in the subtlety of their movements, the way their bodies lined up, that showed exactly what he’d been trying to portray for the last six months.

It was familiar, but in a way, everything was new, because now he had something to prove. Now, he wanted to be sure that Akira wouldn’t want to leave him. He needed to make Akira see that he needed the bassist.

Because that’s what it came down to. He simply needed the other man.

He could only pray that Akira felt the same.

His thrusts steadily became faster, stronger, eliciting more breathy moans from the man beneath him. His hands trailed down the back of Akira’s thighs to hook under his knees, guiding the bassist’s legs around his waist to shift the angle of his hips.

With practiced ease, he thrust in harder and he knew the very moment the tip of his cock brushed the bassist’s prostate. The hands on his back curled, nails digging into his flesh, and Akira threw his head back, a loud groan ripped from his throat. Takanori dipped his head to bite at the older man’s jaw.

The bruises he had left the last time they’d been together were still present, though faded. His lips closed over the discolored patch of skin, sucking it into his mouth. He wanted to mark the other man again, to leave Akira with a reminder of this day. He only wished his teeth could leave something more permanent.

Something that could guarantee the man would never be able to fully rid himself of Takanori’s presence.

Legs tightened around his waist as Akira tensed under him, his back arching like a bow, coming completely off the mattress. Blonde hair fanned out around the bassist’s head, drenched with sweat, sticking to the sheets. Mouth opened in a silent cry, the older man came hard, his release shaking his entire form, wracking his body violently. Takanori was quick to follow Akira over the edge, his vision going white as he spilled inside the older man. His breath caught in his throat, and his body trembled.

When he came down from the high, he noticed the stickiness spreading across his stomach, the sweat that was running down the length of his spine and his arms. He collapsed atop the bassist, his breathing hard and his eyes blinking away the fogginess in his mind.

He didn’t move for a long moment. He enjoyed the sound of Akira’s slowing heartbeat, matched with his own, and the feel of the older man’s chest rising and falling. Eventually, however, he forced his limbs to work again, and he pulled slowly out of the bassist, ignoring the cold emptiness that seemed to wrap around him as a pitiful replacement.

But Akira didn’t allow them but a few seconds to be apart, searching, instinctually, for his warmth and rolled with him. The blonde fit himself along Takanori’s side, an arm and a leg thrown over the vocalist’s body. The action made him smile, as it served to remind him of better days, of when their relationship had first begun. His mouth opened before he was even able to comprehend the words escaping his lips.

“Stay with me.”

There was a pause, and his heart skipped a beat in fear. Taking a deep breath, Akira buried his face in Takanori’s chest, not looking up at the younger man. And when he did speak, it was so soft Takanori wouldn’t have heard it if he hadn’t been listening intently.

“Always.”

But there was something different about the way Akira’s arms stayed limp around his middle, instead of clinging to him in post-coital bliss. An exhaustion seemed to seep from the bassist’s very pores, one that had nothing to do with their physical exertion.

Takanori tried to pretend he didn’t feel the tears leaking from the corners of Akira’s eyes as they fell onto his chest.

Just as he tried to pretend this wasn’t the last time the two of them would ever be together like this.

Because deep down, he knew.

Akira wasn’t his for much longer.


	6. Candy Voice and Devil's Smile

Akira woke with a start. His body jerked him to consciousness, tugging him from the clutches of the nightmare. His eyes snapped open, dark irises shifting around the room as he lifted himself to a sitting position. He brought his knees to his chest and expelled a stale breath of air he hadn’t been aware he was holding.

He felt disoriented, dizzy. The memories of the dream flashed though his mind, and he felt as if he were still stuck inside his unconscious world. He could still feel the glass cutting into his skin, the blood that had pooled in his palm. He squeezed his eyes shut, but despite his efforts, images from the nightmare continued to plague him. His apartment; cold, still, unwelcoming. The glass slipping from his hand, then the glass on the floor. Yutaka mirrored in the shattered crystal at his feet.

He replayed the scenario in his mind again, how he had tried to reach out to the drummer, somehow knowing that all efforts were cast in vain. It didn’t matter how far or hard he had pushed, Akira hadn’t been able to reach him.

He had twisted; searching for the tangible form of the warm, but anxious man that he knew must logically accompany this unreachable reflection, but instead, Takanori stood before him.

Angry.

Dejected.

Betrayed.

His stomach had clenched painfully; sweat rolled in beads down the length of his neck.

He looked down at himself now, taking in the sight of his own naked body, stomach caked with dried come, legs tangled in sheets that smelled of sweat and sex and Takanori. He was certain his hair was disheveled, sticking up in odd places, and he could feel the bruise that the vocalist had left on his neck. His muscles felt stiff, almost as if he had forced himself into positions in which he wasn’t all too comfortable.

He felt the perfect image of debauchery.

A lump formed in the back of his throat. He recalled the last time he woke up in the same state. Things had been different then. He hadn’t felt overcome by his own weakness then; hadn’t felt like he had failed. He felt disgusted with himself, filthy, obscene.

Ashamed.

Takanori’s sleeping form shifted beside him. He glanced over at the other man. Moisture welled in his eyes, blurring his vision. He wiped at the tears that threatened to fall down his cheeks, forcing his gaze away.

He went over the words the vocalist had said to him the night before. The impact that they had had was overwhelming; he had completely forgotten why he had come to the man’s apartment in the first place. All that had gone though his mind was how much he had wanted Takanori to hold him, how much he’d wanted the younger man to stop crying.

Akira pressed a palm against his forehead, closing his eyes in frustration.

He only stayed for a few more painstaking moments before forcing himself out of the warm blankets and into the cold air of Takanori’s bedroom. It didn’t take him long to locate his abandoned clothing scattered across the floor, even less time to pull them over his soiled body.

The bassist shoved his hands inside the pockets of his jeans, fishing out his battered train card. He hoped that there was enough money left on it to get him back to his own apartment. He desperately needed to be alone, to reflect.

To think. Something he obviously hadn’t spent enough time on over the past few days.

Or maybe he’d spent too much time on it.

Quiet as he could manage, Akira made his way to the door. He prayed Takanori wouldn’t wake. It would be best if he didn’t have to speak to the other man. As he slipped out the door another uneasy feeling settling in his stomach.

Akira couldn’t ignore the fact that this was the second time he’d woken up feeling guilty, vulgar; a feeling not altogether unfamiliar, but one that was certainly unwelcome.

It wasn’t right. He had come here to fix things. Instead, he only succeeded in making things worse.

But he guessed that shouldn’t have come as a surprise. He always managed to get himself into situations that he wasn’t able to handle.

He thought back to the dream, a shudder passing down his spine.

 

-o-

 

The knock on his door echoed loudly throughout his apartment.

He looked up from his table, across which his attempt at a new song was strewn. It was a mess of dark scribbles on white paper, an endless stream of compositions that had stopped making sense a long while ago.

He considered ignoring the knock. He had an idea of who was standing outside his door, and he had no desire to face the other man. He had come home to get away from Takanori, and while a part of him had expected the vocalist to show up at one point, he hadn’t thought it would be so soon.

The younger man was never in a hurry to do anything, especially if it involved talking about his feelings, and really, Akira could think of no other reason the two of them would need to see each other now.

The knock came again. The blonde sighed, sliding himself off his couch. His feet felt heavy as they carried him to the door. He took a deep breath before pulling it open.

He eyes widened in surprise to find it wasn’t Takanori standing in the hall.

“Yutaka?”

“Hey,” the brunette said, voice noncommittal, eyes looking over Akira’s shoulder into the apartment before resting on the bassist.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you.” He knew his words sounded dumb, knew that Yutaka would have figured out by his surprise that he hadn’t been expecting visitors.

His suspicions were proven true by the small ironic smile that spread across the other man’s lips for a moment.

“Yeah, sorry about that. I couldn’t really notify you.”

The drummer raised a hand from his coat pocket, holding something small and silver out toward the bassist. He instantly recognized it as his phone, confused for a moment why the drummer would be carrying it.

He scratched the back of his head nervously, “Oops, I’ve been looking everywhere for this.”

“Yeah, you left it at my apartment the other day.” Yutaka said, flashing a small amount of the white enamel behind his lips.

The truth was he had completely forgotten about the cell phone, had been too focused on other things to realize that it had been missing. He reached out to take the machine, gently plucking it from Yutaka’s palm, his calloused fingertips brushing against the soft skin there.

He had to keep himself from visibly shuddering, lest Yutaka find out the effect the small touch had on him. That small amount of contact was enough to bring back vivid memories of the last time the two of them had been together.

He jerked his head to one side, attempting to mask the slight rouging of his cheeks.

“Thanks for bringing my phone. It’s probably been bothering you.”

Yutaka shrugged, “Taka called. A lot.”

A thick silence fell over them. He felt the undeniable urge to say something, to fill the air between them. Again, Yutaka relieved him of the burden.

“Can I come in for a minute?”

The blonde wasn’t sure what allowing Yutaka to step over his threshold would do to his life, only that it would change it. But he found himself nodding anyway, unable to refuse. He pressed himself against the door, opening it further to allow the drummer entrance. Yutaka smiled in thanks, but the expression seemed forced, and he bit his lip again, wondering what he was getting himself into.

The door, shutting behind him had never echoed so loudly in his ears, had never left him with the feeling of such finality.

“Do you want anything to drink?” He asked, trying to distract himself with the simple question. He stepped around Yutaka to walk further into the front room, heading toward the adjacent kitchenette.

“Do you have anything hot?”

“Coffee?”

“Coffee would be great, “The drummer replied. He could hear Yutaka’s feet hitting the floor a few paces behind him, and noticed, suddenly, how quickly the other man walked.

He breathed a heavy sigh when he opened his cupboard, finding a half-empty bag of coffee grounds. He pulled two mugs down from another cupboard and set them on the counter.

Yutaka sat at the small table in the corner as he worked. Akira could sense the other man watching him, could feel dark eyes shifting to follow his movements. He felt scrutinized, as if the drummer were sizing him up.

It was almost like he was back in his dream, when Yutaka had stared up at him. Only this time, he felt no desire to get himself hurt by trying to reach out.

They sat in silence as the coffee brewed, each moment weighing down on them like a tangible proof of their discomfort with each other. It was odd really, for him to feel so afraid to speak, for the anxiety that had settled in his mind to somehow overtake the need to break the silence.

The loud, almost obnoxious beep from the coffee maker made him jump when it went off, his breath catching for a moment in his throat.

He emptied the small pot into the two cups, disconcerted slightly by the abnormally dark color of the liquid. He shrugged it off, however. The last thing he needed to be worrying about right now was the coffee that may or may not have been made too strong.

He was about to sit down, in the chair opposite the drummer, but thought better of it. It was best that he stand, he thought. His height advantage over the other man gave him some sense of control.

“We need to talk, Akira-kun.”

The words caught him off guard, but not because of their meaning, simply because Yutaka had spoken so suddenly.

“I’d figured you’d say that,” he said, his eyes shifting to a point on his wall behind the other man, “it’s a pretty long trip over here just to give me my phone back.”

The brunette nodded, bringing the steaming cup to his lips to taste the coffee. Akira winced, unsurprised by the face the drummer made.

Definitely too strong.

He set his own mug down on the table, scooting it further away from himself with no intention of picking it up again.

Silence settled between them once more. While Yutaka had said he’d wanted to discuss something, the drummer was reluctant to speak. He watched the other man carefully, unable to pull his gaze away. Even now, as nervous as the younger man was obviously feeling, face clean of make-up and hair hanging loosely, he was beautiful.

Despite his best efforts to control his thoughts, Akira’s mind traveled back to the last time the two of them were together. He had spent a week thinking about the drummer, but couldn’t for the life of him figure out how he had let Yutaka effect him so much. Even after all they had done, his heart still beat wildly in his chest at the sight of the other man, he still itched to reach out and touch soft skin, still wished Yutaka would look at him, hold him and whisper the words that had fallen so easily from the drummer’s lips before.

And having the man in front of him now seemed to take away any guilt he had been feeling earlier. He wanted Yutaka, even if he couldn’t have him.

“We can’t avoid what happened.”

The words pulled him from his thoughts, forced him back to reality. His eyes met Yutaka’s, and he found that it was impossible to tear his gaze away from the dark eyes that seemed to stare into him.

“I know you remember, Akira-kun.”

He thought about what he should say to the drummer in response. He considered his lie from before, considered acting as if he still had no idea what Yutaka was talking about. His eyes fell to the floor again.

“I’m sorry…” he paused, gaining a little of his composure.

Yutaka’s eyes narrowed in concern. “Why did you lie to me?”

“I don’t know. I guess I was afraid of facing what had happened. I didn’t want to think about it at the time.”

The drummer nodded. Akira looked down at his hands resting on the table.

“You can’t run away from your problems, Akira-kun.” Yutaka said and he clenched his teeth to keep from wincing at the words.

Yutaka thought that he saw their actions as nothing more than a problem that he was trying to escape. It was obvious that’s all the drummer thought of it. He knew, suddenly, that nothing could become of his feelings for the other man.

“We can’t let it jeopardize the band,” the brunette stated, his tone firm.

Akira nodded, still silent. A mixture of thoughts ran though him, ones that left him dejected, disappointed in himself.

Yutaka stared blankly at the floor for a few more minutes before standing up and walking towards the door.

“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, reaching for the doorknob. “Thank you for the coffee.”

He didn’t know why, but Yutaka’s abrupt departing words spurred something in him. He flipped around, his brow furrowing in confused anger.

“Did it mean nothing to you?”

The drummer turned, his face perplexed. “What?”

“Did it mean nothing to you?” he repeated.

Yutaka didn’t say anything for a few minutes. He appeared surprised by the bassist’s sudden question. “Why would you say that?”

“You obviously came over here to talk about it,” Akira reasoned, moving slowly toward the other man, “I just figured it meant more to you than messing up our professional status.”

His words seemed to bring some emotion out in the other. Yutaka wavered in place for a moment before he took a few small steps back into the kitchen, eyes searching Akira’s.

He could hear Yutaka sigh heavily before the man spoke again.

“Yes. Yes, it meant something to me. I didn’t think it would at first, but it turned into something I didn’t expect.”

“Is that good?”

“That really all depends.”

“On what?”

“On you.”

The bassist swallowed hard, he already knew where the conversation was heading.

“I can’t be with you if you’re with Takanori.” Yutaka said and the words hit him like a fist to the chest. His relationship with the vocalist hadn’t seemed to deter Yutaka the other night. But then, that had been different.

“I talked to him last night,” he said, his eyes shifting to the floor.

“About?”

“About us breaking up.” He didn’t elaborate, didn’t think he needed to say what really had happened between Takanori and himself. He had fully intended to break things off with the vocalist. In fact, he still meant to. The next time he saw the younger man, he was going to end their relationship for good.

“So, do you want to be with me?” Yutaka’s words pulled him from his thoughts and he looked back up at the drummer. His eyes narrowed in thought.

Akira thought that was a pretty stupid question. He smiled.

“Duh.”

Yutaka returned the gesture, stepping even closer to him.

“I really should go. I have stuff to take care of. Maybe tomorrow, we can meet somewhere?”

Akira nodded, noting the uncharacteristic nervous tone of Yutaka’s voice.

Tomorrow.

That would give him enough time to talk to Takanori.

Suddenly, he found it very hard to breathe.

“Yutaka-kun.” The bassist moved closer to the other man.

The drummer turned again. “Hm?”

“Thank you for bringing my cell phone back.” He smiled and leaned in to give Yutaka a kiss.

It wasn’t meant to be anything more than a kiss goodbye, but the younger man seemed to be more captivated by it than he intended. He felt the man’s hand rest on his side. Yutaka pulled him closer, leaning into his mouth. They broke apart after a few moments, breathing deeply.

“I wanted to know if it felt the same when you weren’t drunk.” Yutaka smiled.

Akira felt a shiver travel down his spine. He laughed nervously before answering, “It felt comfortable.”

“Is that good?”

Akira nodded. He wrapped his arms around the drummer’s abdomen and rested his head against a broad shoulder. He sighed, content with the fact that he had ended the conversation with something truthful.


	7. I'm Drawn to the Danger of Drowning

It amazed Yutaka how easily Akira submitted to him.

There was never any argument or battle over who got to be on top, the bassist would always just lie down and allow anything to happen to him, with very little, if any, protest. It thrilled Yutaka, if he was to be perfectly honest, a touch more than it surprised him. He was power and strength embodied in comparison to the bassist, and Akira had instantly placed a trust in him that he thought would have taken years to instill.

It was the first time the drummer had been with anyone like that; someone so eager to please, so willing to expose all of his emotions, to risk everything on a relationship that wasn’t yet a month old. It was strange, but Yutaka couldn’t help but to be intrigued by the blonde’s behavior.

He knew Akira would do anything. All he had to do was ask.

Or demand.

He would never have imagined himself as a particularly dominant person, but with Akira spread neatly beneath him, the role came so naturally it was a wonder he hadn’t noticed it before.

Yutaka looked back to the wall where the bassist was standing, naked. Akira looked to be waiting for relief from the anxiety the drummer could sense building up inside of him. Yutaka smiled, enjoying the mental strain he was putting his lover through.

He ran a slender finger down the blonde’s bare chest. He watched through the darkness as Akira’s eyelids fluttered closed.

He felt his stomach twinge, a new feeling surging though his body. He had been feeling it a lot recently, and each time they were together, it seemed to grow more intense, but at the same time, that much more indescribable.

He leaned against Akira’s lips, moaning under his breath as the feeling rushed through him with more intensity.

He realized why he knew it so well.

It was the same feeling he got right before he went onstage, the same as the feel he’d gotten the first time he’d held drumsticks in his hands, the first time he’d heard himself beat out a perfect rhythm that thudded against his chest like another organ in his body.

It felt, simply and amazingly, right.

He found himself hyperaware of how close Akira was to him. He could feel the heat from the others body, the faint sounds of his shallow breathing. The blonde was with him, and Yutaka wouldn’t have it any other way.

Akira’s pulse beat steadily under his fingers as he wrapped his hands around the bassist’s wrists, thumbs pressing insistently on the underside, demanding attention. He sucked at the older man’s jaw, eliciting yet another startled moan, reveling in the sound. Knee pushed up between the blonde’s spread thighs, he held the other man flat against the wall.

He felt his arousal fill him; so warm he was sure his skin must be hot to the touch. His tongue traveled up the length of the bassist’s neck, stopping just underneath his studded earlobe. “What do you want?”

The blonde gasped, arching off the wall and further into Yutaka’s chest. Fingers clenched and unclenched rhythmically, and the drummer could feel the tendons in Akira’s wrists fighting their restraints, though whether to push him off or pull him closer, even Akira seemed unsure.

He smirked, trailing his tongue along the shell of the bassist’s ear before speaking again, keeping his voice low, nearly a whisper.

“What do you want, Akira?” he asked again, punctuating his words with a sharp bite to the cartilage beneath his lips.

Yutaka could feel the shutter travel down his lovers body as his muscles tensed, his face twisting in pain from the drummer’s words. “Yutaka…please,” His breathing quickened, sweat started to bead on his forehead, “please…”

The younger man smiled, laughing under his breath, “Don’t act as if you don’t like it” His fingers wrapped around Akira’s exposed throat, pressing hard enough to get the blonde’s attention, “Tell me you like it, like the whore you are.”

Akira’s moan was trapped in his constricted throat, his eyes tearing as the drummer’s grasp tightened. Yutaka could tell that the bassist was trying to answer him, he just loved to watch him struggle. He relapsed his grip just enough for the blonde to respond, “Tell me.”

“I love it…Yutaka…just fuck me…please.”

The sound that escaped Yutaka’s throat in response to those words could be described as nothing less than a growl. He bit at Akira’s earlobe again, his thumb pressing against the hollow of the bassist’s throat. The older man let his head fall back, smacking against the wall, and his hands came up to fist in the drummer’s t-shirt, tugging at it uselessly.

“Bedroom. Now.” He almost didn’t recognize his own voice it was so deep. He pulled away from the bassist abruptly. He watched with a smirk as Akira nearly fell to the ground at his feet, obviously having been unaware how much he’d been relying on the drummer to hold him up.

The two of them stumbled into the bedroom, and Yutaka grabbed the fabric of Akira’s shirt, pulling it over his head, tossing it across the room. His lips trailed down the bassist naked chest. The drummer loved the way Akira tasted, the way his sweat would mix with his cologne. The younger man caught himself moaning out loud as his hands traveled to the bassist’s thighs.

Akira laughed at the moment of weakness.

Yutaka could feel himself being taken over with emotion. He didn’t take lightly to his dominance being questioned, even if it wasn’t deliberately. Without giving it much thought his open hand smacked against Akira’s cheek, silencing any defiant banter the blonde had left.

“Turn over.”

The blonde whimpered, shifting onto his knees, his body trembling violently. Yutaka shook his head disbelievingly. He fisted Akira’s hair tightly, forcing the older man’s head back against his shoulder; he nipped at an exposed ear.

“If you can barely handle the force of a little slap to the face, how do you expect to take my cock in your ass?” His voice was little more than a whisper, but it pierced the weighty silence that surrounded them. Akira only shivered in response, but a hand reached back to grip his thigh tightly, begging.

The drummer savored the sight, straining not to touch him, to draw it out. Akira knelt on all fours in front of him, stark naked, begging to be touched. Yutaka was sure he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

His ran a calloused finger down the older man’s spine continuing to the surface of Akira’s throbbing entrance, lazily tracing circles around it. He ravished in the response of his actions.

“Can you handle it Akira?”

The blonde moaned in response, clenching his teeth in frustration.

He moved back up the bassist’s body, covering it almost completely with his own. Biting down hard on the nape of Akira’s neck, he pushed on finger inside, ignoring the body’s natural resistance, curling it just enough to pull a strangled scream from the older man’s throat.

He sucked at the skin between his teeth, hollowing out his cheeks, trying with everything he had to leave the deepest purple mark. It would be easy to cover up--a necessity in their profession--but he would know where to find it, if he should ever have to remind himself of his control.

“Yu…Yutaka,”

The drummer, without warning, pulled his finger into the cool air, depriving the blonde of the pleasure. The protesting whines that followed were enough to make Yutaka come without any contact at all, but if the drummer had nothing else, he had self control.

He unbuttoned his own pants, only sliding them a few inches to hang on his sweat drenched thighs. The tip of his cock teased against the blonde’s bare skin before thrusting inside of him, more abrupt than anything else.

The effect Yutaka was going for panned out beautifully, Akira moaned louder than he had in a long time.

He spread himself across the bassist’s back, his hands gripping rounded hips, his mouth finding the protruding tendon on the side of Akira’s neck. He wasted no time in setting a rhythm, his eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of skin slipping across skin, tight heat surrounding him.

Slowly, he let himself slide out partly, allowing the blonde to really feel his cock inside him. Akira pressed his face into the sheets, muffling another outburst.

“Head up,” he said, coaxing Akira’s head back against his shoulder with a hand fisted in blonde hair, “I want to hear you.”

The bassist gasped, and Yutaka wondered vaguely if the man had never had the experience of talking during sex. He wanted to laugh. For all Akira’s obvious talents in bed, the older man seemed blindingly naïve at times.

He slammed back in, shifting his hips just so, and he knew he hit the bassist’s prostate. Akira nearly screamed.

Yutaka wrapped his hand around Akira’s erection. It was already covered with the sticky prelude to his release. The feel of the blonde’s cock was enough to send him over the edge; The younger man closed his eyes and took several controlled breaths in an effort to suppress the urge to let himself go.

Akira moaned loudly in Yutaka’s ear. The drummer thrust harder.

“Come for me, Akira.” He whispered, pulling the bassist’s earlobe between his teeth and biting hard. The blonde pressed the top of his head impossibly further into his shoulder. A strangled moan filled the air around them, and Akira was shuddering violently, his muscles tensing around Yutaka.

They both collapsed on the cold sheets below them, dripping with sweat and panting. Yutaka kissed the arch in Akira’s back. He had never been much for post-coital sentiments, but he knew that the blonde loved it and because of that he found himself loving it too.

Akira turned on his side and buried his face in Yutaka’s bare chest, sighing with satisfaction. “It’s been a while since I came that hard.”

Yutaka smiled at the weakness in his voice, he liked the idea of taking that much energy out someone who never stopped. It was almost as satisfying as the comment.

He wrapped his arms around the bassist, humming against the shorter man’s forehead.

“Sleep.” The word came out sounding like a command, though he hadn’t meant for it to. Even more odd was how quickly Akira mumbled an agreement against his shoulder and settled even more serenely into his arms.

The sound of Akira’s breathing steadied and it wasn’t long before the bassist was undoubtedly asleep.

Yutaka sighed. His relationship with the man next to him was becoming increasingly confusing. His feelings didn’t make sense. Never had he allowed himself to open up as much as he had with Akira. Never had another person been able to make him feel this way after such a short amount of time.

Akira murmured something in his sleep, rolling to his side and wrapping a muscular arm around Yutaka’s middle. The drummer smiled, tangling his fingers in the messy, sweat drenched blonde hair. Whatever the reason, no other person had managed to instill such feelings in him the way Akira did. He’d never felt so protective, so in love with another person in his life.

He thought back to when he had first joined the band, how much Akira had hated him. He never really knew why, but he figured it had to do with his replacing the last drummer. What minimal discussion of the topic Yutaka had managed to coax out of the bassist, and indeed the rest of the band, had cast an awkward, dark shadow over the general mood, and so Yutaka had left it alone.

He wondered what had changed in Akira. What had caused him to give himself so willingly that first night on the drummer’s couch? And more importantly, what had caused Yutaka to act so rashly when he always, always, as a rule, gave his decisions careful thought and extended consideration?

This night was different. He wanted nothing more than to feel the bassist against him, to hear his heavy breathing, and to know that every sensation in Akira’s body was being controlled by him, and only him. He wanted to fuck until he couldn’t hold his eyes open. Most of all he wanted to hear Akira say his name again.

His groin twinged again.

When did he become such a slut?

Yutaka allowed his eyes to close, deciding that thinking about it wasn’t going to help. He sighed, feeling more confused than he ever had.


	8. Crazy Fraud Lovers

He missed walking the streets of Tokyo.

He could remember when he used to walk through the crowded streets and just listen to the people around him. The business men and their military pace, women talking hurriedly on cell phones about the men in their lives, or their daily burdens, university students rushing to class after having crammed all night long for an exam they are already overly prepared for.

Looking out the darkened window, he glimpsed a small group of teenagers gathered by the mouth of an alley. They were huddled around a magazine, chatting away about how they felt about an article, or a picture that was pointed out.

Takanori sighed. He was reminded of himself; how not so long ago he had been one of those boys, looking at the latest Visual Kei band, forever comparing them to his original inspirations. He found it funny to think that he had been on the cover of those magazines, and that it was possible that those kids were reacting to Gazette.

He wanted to know what they were thinking. How they felt about the music they listened to; if he had instilled the same kind of inspiration in a young man’s heart the way his idol had his own.

He sighed. It would be a long time before he could walk down a crowded street by himself.

Suddenly, the car stopped. Taka looked at the towering recording studio.

He thanked the driver and stepped out into the cool city air.

Whenever going somewhere for work, Takanori tried to avoid looking to his sides; he didn’t want to be reminded that there were two enormous men flanking him at all times. Some things about being famous he could really do without.

As he entered the building, he was greeted by a few familiar faces. He smiled and nodded in return. He was always afraid that people would mistake his shyness for rudeness like so many had in the past, but habits were hard to break and he wasn’t going to change it until it really proved to be a problem. So far, the people at the studio had just accepted his introverted artist behavior and hadn’t asked too many questions. It wasn’t that he had anything to hide; he just really think his life was anyone else’s business.

He was sure though that some would pay good money to know what was really happening in his personal life right now.

He’d been trying not to think too much about it himself. He had mixed feelings about the night that Akira had come to break up with him. He was happy that the bassist had changed his mind, even if the decision seemed almost unwilling. The older man had said that he would stay with him forever, but the words had been so visibly forced and when he’d woken up the next morning, Akira was closing the front door of his apartment.

He honestly hadn’t expected to see the other man for a while after that.

But things seemed to be fine now, if not back to normal, then close enough. No one could confuse him more than Akira.

He shook his head, in a physical attempt to clear his mind as he stepped into the studio. The studio represented professionalism, and the vocalist felt determined to leave his personal life outside.

His brow furrowed in momentary confusion and his eyes flitted compulsively to the wall clock.

7:12. Of course, he was the only one there. He had planned to come in early, but he’d thought it was later than that…

It wasn’t that big of a deal, he supposed.

Setting his bag on the worn leather couch, and pulled out a tattered spiral notebook. Flipping through the pages absently he moved to the soundboard to wait for the man he’d come in early to see.

 

-o-

 

Yutaka pushed open the studio door with more force than he had expected, causing it to crack against the wall loudly, but he ignored it.

The drummer was surprised, however, to find the bands vocalist standing in front of the large soundboard. He jerked bodily and clutched his chest as his heart pounded explosively inside.

“Fuck.”

The drummer’s eyes narrowed, “What are you doing here?”

Takanori blinked, “Um, I don’t know, I work here?”

“Oh…I…I’m just not used to anyone being here before me.” he scratched the back of his neck, glancing around the room to avoid the vocalists questioning gaze.

“Are you ok?”

The man’s voice had softened, and Yutaka knew that he wasn’t hiding his anxiety well. He sighed, meeting Takanori’s eyes. The younger man was looking at him with honest worry.

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he responded, and something caught his eye that he hadn’t noticed when he’d first walked in. “Who’s shirt are you wearing?”

Takanori looked down at his own chest. “Oh, it’s Aki’s. It’s a little big, but I didn’t want to go digging through all the dirty ones on my floor this morning when I got up. This one is relatively clean.”

His brow furrowed.

“Oh, alright.”

“Seriously, distracting me isn’t going to get you out of telling me what’s wrong.”

The drummer sighed. He knew that he wasn’t going to be able to avoid Taka, they’d grown too close for that to work anymore.

“It’s really not a big deal, just stuff with my personal life.”

“You know, you can tell me to butt the hell out if you want.”

Yutaka smiled. He didn’t want to vocalist to think he was uncomfortable talking to him. It really wasn’t like that. He had a bond with Takanori that differed from any he’d experienced before, but he still wasn’t sure it was appropriate to relay his troubles with Akira to his ex-boyfriend.

“You’re fine, it’s just really hard to explain.”

The younger man nodded, “It’s cool. I’m going through some weird, unexplainable shit myself.”

Yutaka noticed that his gaze fixed on the bass guitar resting in its holder in the corner of the room. The vocalist’s smile disappeared, his eyes looked worried. It seemed that Akira was causing problems for both of them.

He wondered for a moment how different their situations were.

“Anyway,” the younger man’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, “I did come here for an actual reason.”

“See, I knew something had to have happened for you to wake up before noon on your own.”

“Fuck you, Uke,” Takanori said, but his lips were turned up in a playful smile. The vocalist turned back around to the soundboard and picked up his battered notebook. “I want you to look at something.”

“New lyrics?” he asked, moving carefully to the chair next to the other man, sitting and reaching for the notebook. Takanori handed it over easily enough, but he could tell it was still difficult for the vocalist to let someone see his words for the first time.

He imagined it was the same way he had felt when he’d auditioned for them that first day, when, even though he knew he had Takanori’s approval already, he had to win over the other members. It was probably the same for Taka now, revealing himself piece by piece, constantly worried others would turn him away, that he could be rejected at any time. Outwardly, the vocalist may have appeared proud and confident, but Yutaka knew the insecurity that lay beneath that protective shell.

He held the notebook gently, prying back the tattered cover and flipping through the pages till he got to the last one that had been written in. Takanori’s handwriting wasn’t amazing, but it was probably the most legible out of all of theirs. In his lyric book, words were everywhere, covering the pages until there seemed to be nothing left of the blank, white sheets he’d started with.

“They’re not done yet, and… I’ll probably change it a little, I mean, it’s just a rough draft and--”

“Taka! Would you let me finish?”

The drummer smiled and read though the phrases written on the paper.

The lyric stood out in his mind. He bit at the inside of his cheek and read the line over a few times, letting the words linger in his mind for a moment.

Takanori’s eyes narrowed when Yutaka finally looked up from the page. It took the older man a few moments to respond. The room seemed to fill with anxiety.

“They’re awful, aren’t they?”

Yutaka blinked a few times. “I’m not even going to answer that question.”

“What does that mean?”

“They’re not awful. They’re sad.”

“Yeah, I know they’re sad. But are they any good?”

“Taka, did you write them?”

The vocalist nodded, looking confused.

“Then they’re good.”

The vocalist rolled his eyes, his hand shooting out to close around the notebook again and tugging until Yutaka let go of it. The drummer watched silently as the other man reread his own words, his eyes following the lines quickly. He didn’t know what the younger man was looking for.

“You know that doesn’t help me, Yutaka,” the vocalist said.

And Yutaka did know. As much as he thought the other man needed constant reassurance, that wasn’t what he’d been asked for. He’d been asked to evaluate the words, to see flaws.

“I don’t know why you come to me for this,” he said, “not that I mind or anything, it’s just… I always figured this was something you’d go to Kouyou or Akira for.”

Takanori shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess it’s because you’re the one… like the only one, that really… understands me, you know? We sort of have that same… passion.”

Yutaka looked at him surprised. “I, well, I never knew you felt that way…about me.”

The vocalist smiled, “Dude, you’re the only one that doesn’t get on my nerves constantly.”

“Everyone gets on your nerves.”

“Yeah, but it takes a lot longer with you.” He laughed. The sound was something rare for Takanori.

There was little that Yutaka found more satisfying than the happiness of those close to him. It really said something about the friendship that had developed between the two of them in the relatively short time they’d known each other that they could still be having this conversation, even with what was happening with Akira, and it didn’t stand between them.

Yutaka was starting to feel as if he belonged with this band; it was nice. Warm.

“But anyway,” Takanori said, “you really like them?”

“Yeah,” he laughed, “I don’t know why you were so nervous about them. They’re good.”

Takanori nodded, setting the notebook on the soundboard and pointing to a particular line. “I don’t know about this−”

Yutaka let his hand fall across one of Takanori’s. “Stop. I said they were good. So quit worrying about them. You have music for them?”

Another nod. “I’ve got a little bit of the melody. Obviously, I’ll have to run it by Kouyou to work out the rest of it, but I think we could get it finished soon.”

“I might be able to help,” Yutaka said, and Takanori looked up at him, confused. “I mean, I play a little bit of guitar. I’m not great, but I think between the two of us, we could probably come up with something.”

Takanori’s smile was soft. “Yeah… Yeah, that would be cool.”

“Yeah… cool.”

“Hey, maybe−’’

They were interrupted by the sound of the door to the studio swinging open and crashing into the wall for the second time that morning. Yutaka winced, hoping they didn’t put a hole in it, imagining the contempt this might incite in the building’s owners. The two of them looked up to see Kouyou shuffling into the room, Akira following behind him, looking tentative and apologetic.

Kouyou looked livid.

“Someone better have coffee, or I’m quitting the band!”

 

-o-

 

Yutaka started to put the sliver key into the side of his car, but was interrupted.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

The drummer patted his side, to see if his phone was still in the pocket he thought it was.

“I have my phone… and my phone.” He looked over confused. Kouyou shook his head disbelievingly.

“Um, Your bassist?”

His confusion lasted a moment more.

“Shit.”

He’d completely forgotten that Akira was coming home with him. He blamed it on the fact that he hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep the night before, in fact, he hadn’t had much sleep since Akira went back to his own apartment. It had been three days since they had spoken, really spoken, outside the snatches of conversation that lasted only a few minutes at a time.

He cursed to himself for letting it slip his mind. He knew the others didn’t see it as a big deal, but it was different to Yutaka. For as long as he could remember, he had always been the person that forgot something. It bothered him that he had this problem, this thing that was beyond his control, and even worse, that it affected his life and those around him.

The drummer sighed and pushed the door to the recording studio open once more. He thought it best not to tell the bassist that he was about to drive away without him, even though the blonde would probably laugh more than he would be angry about it.

Halfway down the hall he heard voices from the break room. He slowed his pace considerably and listened as he approached the open door. He stopped a few feet short of it, wanting to make out the muffled conversation, but being careful to keep out of sight.

“He’s not that bad.” Akira declared.

“I know. I love you; see you later tonight?”

It was Takanori. Yutaka felt his heart sink into the pit of his stomach.

“I love you too, and maybe, it depends on how late I’m up.”

The vocalist whined, “Don’t work too hard, we don’t need two Yutaka’s.”

“I won’t.”

Takanori walked out the room, smiling the same as he did earlier. He caught sight of the drummer leaning against the wall.

“See you later Yutaka, don’t keep him too late.” he winked and walked out the door.

Yutaka just nodded, he didn’t think he could force speech. He didn’t know if he wanted to scream or if he wanted to cry. It was all too sudden, too much for him to comprehend.

He had to get out of there.


	9. The Image of a Butterfly Falling Without Wings

"Taka—”

His words were cut off, muffled against Takanori’s lips. A hand gripped the fabric of his t-shirt, another pulling at his hip. Takanori bit at his lip, holding the pliant flesh between sharp teeth, and he nearly whimpered. His knees felt weak under his weight and he leaned heavily on the shorter man.

A knee shoved between his thighs and suddenly his back was slammed against the wall. He did whimper then.

“Taka…” he whispered when the vocalist’s lips trailed down his neck. “Stop, we… we’re at the studio.”

“No one’s gonna see us,” Takanori said against his throat. “They all went home.”

“Yutaka…” he said frantically, and with his own reminder, his urgency grew. “He’s… Yutaka’s still here.”

“You act as if you don’t fucking love this,” Takanori pulled away for a second to reposition them, his mouth attaching to Akira’s ear.

The bassist held back a moan, closing his eyes to regain composure. He pushed against the vocalist’s chest, trying to sound more adamant in his speech.

“No…”

Takanori sighed, releasing the bassist’s ear. He looked at the blonde mischievously “Fine, But you owe me later.”

Akira smiled, “I’ll do whatever you like.”

The vocalist shuddered, “I like the sound of that.” he leaned in close for one final kiss.

“Have fun doing extra rhythm practice with Yutaka, sounds like lots of fun.” Takanori mocked shooting himself at the thought.

“He’s not that bad”

Takanori smiled, “I know. I love you, see you later tonight?”

“I love you too, and maybe, it depends on how late I’m up.”

The vocalist whined, “Don’t work to hard, we don’t need two Yutaka’s.”

“I won’t.”

The bassist watched as Takanori walked out of the practice room, an uneasy feeling forming in his chest.

Everyday that they were together was another day he was lying to Yutaka, which was something he didn’t want to do, but had been since the beginning. Akira sighed, he wanted more than anything to be held by the drummer. To smell him, to feel his muscular arms wrapped tightly around him, to feel that safety only Yutaka seemed to bring.

He shook his head to clear it, he grabbed his bag and headed towards the practice room where Yutaka would be waiting for him.

It wasn’t often that the two of them were alone at the studio, or any other place beside Yutaka’s apartment, for that matter, and he’d kind of been looking forward to spending time with the other man outside of their homes. It was a nice change.

And he’d always had a thing for sex in the studio, next to the drums and the guitars.

The reasons he became a musician were endless.

When he reached the room he was surprised to see that the drummer was shoving drumsticks into his bag.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

Yutaka didn’t look up, just turned back to his drum set and began unscrewing his cymbals carefully. Akira felt his brow furrow in confusion.

“I thought… weren’t we supposed to practice tonight?”

“Yes.” Yutaka replied, his voice terse. Still, he refused to look at the blonde.

“So, what—”

“Something came up.”

“Oh, okay,” Akira chuckled nervously, scratching at the back of his neck. “So, I’ll just see you at home later?”

“Doubt it.”

Akira swallowed thickly, chancing another few steps closer to the other man. “Alright. Well, do you need help—”

“I don’t need any help from you, Suzuki.”

The impact of hearing his last name caused the bassist to step back. He couldn’t remember a time that Yutaka had ever said anything in a tone so harsh. His stomach lurched.

“Yutaka….What’s going on?”

The drummer ignored the question and continued to unscrew the remaining parts of his drum set, setting them each aside as he did after every practice, placing against the wall and out of the way. It had been a long time since Akira had seen him work that quickly, even on tour it took him longer.

He watched in silence as Yutaka packed the last of his cymbals and lugged his bag over his shoulder. The drummer didn’t even make a sideways glance at the blonde as he went to exit the empty studio. Akira could feel heat gathering in his face.

“Yutaka, talk to me.”

The younger man paused in the doorway for a moment, as if he was contemplating a response. After a while he continued to walk away, saying nothing.

“Wait! Yutaka! What’s going on?!” He stumbled after the other man, trying to choke back the oncoming tears. The drummer walked quickly, faster than Akira could even think to move, and was already at the end of the hallway, pushing against the back door to step out into the parking lot.

The bassist sprinted to catch up. He ran into the outside air, trying to get close enough to the drummer to grab and arm, or something that might get him to pay attention.

“Yutaka, please.”

Yutaka turned around violently, knocking Akira back a few steps, “What? What do you want?”

“I want you to talk to me. What happened?”

Yutaka scoffed, “What happened? You’re really asking me that question?” His face twisted oddly, like he was going to say something but stopped himself. He shook his head and started to turn again.

“No,” Akira grabbed his arm, “Don’t run away from me.”

The drummer threw off the blondes grip, “Leave me alone Akira, I really don’t want to see you right now.”

The bassist swallowed. “Why? I… I don’t understand. What’s wrong?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know.” he said without turning around.

Akira’s eyes questioned the statement, “I don’t! Why are you so angry?”

Yutaka gritted his teeth and kept walking.

“Yutaka!”

He stopped again, this time facing the bassist. His eyes were wider than normal and when he spoke Akira instantly wished he hadn’t, wished he could be anywhere but there.

“I saw you Akira! I saw you with him! Is that what you want to hear?”

The bassist was silent; his heart sank in his chest.

“Yuta…..I….I can explain.”

“Explain?! You can fucking explain?”

The drummer’s voice grew in volume every time he spoke. Akira felt tears welling in the corner of his eyes.

“I…”

“Explain then, Akira! Explain why I thought for a second that this was a good idea, why you were a good idea. Explain why I fucking believed you when you said you wanted to be with me! Explain why I’m a fucking idiot and why I couldn’t just see you’re nothing but a fucking whore. Did you get what you wanted, Akira?! Did you get your cheap thrills?! Did you enjoy fucking with me?! Because I sure as hell hope it was worth it!”

Akira stood speechless, staring at the other man. He felt outside himself, disconnected from his body. He knew he must be crying, could feel the soreness in his throat, the hot tears running down his cheeks, but he could only focus on the words that hung between them, and the silence that seemed to envelope them now.

“Yu… I… I’m… I’m sorry”

“Oh, I see. You’re sorry. What, is that supposed to make me feel better? Am I supposed to take you back now? Let’s just pretend that nothing happened because Akira is sorry!”

Akira shook his head, unable to think with Yutaka yelling. Yutaka never yelled.

“What else do you want me to say?!”

“You lied to me Akira! After you promised you wouldn’t, you fucking lied again!”

“I… I just wanted to fix it… I just… wanted everyone to be ok. I… never meant to… hurt anyone.”

It was silent again. Yutaka visibly relaxed. A wry smile pulled at the drummer’s lips, the first expression Akira had been able to see since they’d started fighting.

“Is that how you got Taka to fuck you again?”

Yutaka turned again. Akira felt his throat tighten. He wanted to scream for the drummer to stay, to just listen and give him another chance. He didn’t even care if Yutaka wanted to yell, just as long as he stayed.

“Wait… please… ”

Yutaka didn’t even turn around this time.

“Fuck you, Akira.”


	10. Peel Off Pretense

Takashima Kouyou snapped his cell phone shut in frustration. His distress must have shown, because a moment later the sound of Yuu’s guitar faded in the background before stopping altogether.

“You okay?”

He nodded, biting into his bottom lip. He tried to convince himself that he had nothing to worry about, that this was just typical, dramatic Akira. Nothing more. Still, he couldn’t push the unease from his mind.

Mostly convinced that something was really going on and the bassist really needed him, Kouyou made to grab his car keys and head for the door.

“Yeah, it’s just Aki.”

“What’d he do now?” Yuu went back to absently strumming at his instrument.

“I don’t know, but if I don’t go he’ll just keep calling and… you know.” The blonde didn’t want to outwardly express his feelings about the subject, not until he knew what was going on.

“Yeah.” Yuu looked up at him, smirking. There was a pause. “You’re a good friend. Better than I could be.”

Kouyou rolled his eyes. As if he could really ignore Akira.

“Thanks. I’ll see you later.”

He didn’t wait for a reply from the other guitarist. Shutting his front door behind him and making his way toward the stairs, Kouyou tried again to tell himself that nothing too bad could be happening. Akira had been vague on the phone, reluctant to speak save for asking Kouyou to pick him up from the studio. While that would normally have been a promising sign for the guitarist, he still felt uneasy about the whole situation.

Akira was never quiet.

Normally, he wouldn’t bother with his car, as the studio wasn’t too far away from his apartment, but he didn’t think Akira would be up to walking back. His footsteps on the pavement echoed oddly off the walls of the buildings surrounding him as he made his way to his car, and the sound served to urge him on faster. He practically yanked the door off its hinges before he slid into the driver’s seat

He drove the twenty kilometers to the studio in silence, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, his eyes flicking back and forth between the road and his rearview mirror. He knew he was speeding, but didn’t look down to see exactly how fast he was going.

He knew he was probably overreacting, that Akira was probably fine. The bassist called him with all kinds of odd complaints and requests, and logically, Kouyou knew this was probably no different. But he couldn’t shake the unease that was settling in his stomach. It was a familiar feeling; one he only associated with Akira and danger.

He’d explained the feeling to his mother once, a long time ago, before he had packed up his room back home and moved to Tokyo after high school. She had just smiled, told him it was normal to have instincts about people he cared about, people with which he was familiar.

And so far the instinct hadn’t steered him wrong in life, especially when it came to Akira.

He blamed his urgency now on that instinct, the simple fact that he had felt wrong when he’d hung up with the bassist, felt that something was off. He wasn’t normally one to listen to his body, to recognize intuition. But he also wasn’t one to drop everything and run to anyone’s side.

His mind poured over the day’s events, thinking about something that could have gone wrong that the bassist would be sitting at the studio, crying and needing to be picked up. The blonde sighed, not being able to pin point one thing in particular. He went to his apartment earlier that day, got to practice late because he couldn’t find his subway card, and he was going home with…

Yutaka.

Kouyou felt anger stewing in the bottom of his chest. The blonde swore to himself. There was no way that he could allow Akira to go through that kind of pain again.

As he pulled into the studio, he searched the lot for his friend. He found the blonde sitting just outside one of the side doors, knees pulled up to his chest, biting incessantly at one fingernail. He parked the car, but after a moment of sitting there waiting, it became obvious the man wasn’t going to move.

Kouyou sighed. He wasn’t above physically moving the bassist, himself.

Akira’s head snapped up when the guitarist opened the door to get out of his car, his hand reaching behind him to grab what Kouyou assumed was his bag.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you.” the bassist said, standing up from the curb.

Kouyou nodded. “What happened?”

“What?” The blonde looked confused for a moment, before laughing shakily, “Oh, I think Yutaka had somewhere important to be. He probably just forgot he was supposed to take me home or something. No big deal.”

No big deal. Kouyou blinked in the face of the bassist’s developing lie. While Yutaka was the most incompetent person he knew when it came to anything but drumming, he wasn’t likely to walk off without something he’d been reminded only moments before to go and collect.

The red ringing Akira’s eyes didn’t help the man’s case much either.

He nodded again, turning to get back into his car. Akira followed without a word, and when his seatbelt clicked audibly into place, Kouyou asked, “Do you want to go home, or…”

“Uhm,” the bassist cleared his throat, “Would you mind if I stayed with you tonight?”

Strike three, he thought cynically, nursing affectionate thoughts of beating Yutaka’s head in with a bat.

“That’s fine,” he said as evenly as he could, “You’ll have to fight Yuu for the couch though.”

Akira nodded absently, sitting down in the passenger seat of Kouyou’s car and hugging his bag close to his chest. His eyes looked out the windshield, his eyes glossy, his lips quivering.

“Aki, you know you’re not fooling me.” Kouyou made sure his voice was softer than normal, soothing almost. “Tell me what happened.”

The bassist looked sideways at his best friend before letting up on his emotions. A few tears streamed down his cheeks.

“He…. He yelled at me Kouyou. I’ve never heard him yell at anyone… and…”

The guitarist swallowed the lump in his throat and closed his eyes. It was important that he not lose his temper with Akira next to him. It wouldn’t help the situation. He took a deep breath before he spoke; his voice still shook slightly from his anger.

“Is....that…all?”

Akira nodded, “Yeah. Then he just left. That’s why I called you.”

Kouyou felt his hands ball into fists. He held back another surge of emotion.

“He… left?”

The older man nodded again, more tears falling down his face. “Can we just go to your apartment?”

“Yeah,” it was clear that the bassist didn’t want to talk about the situation. Kouyou was fine with that. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold back his true feelings concerning these developments. He took another deep breath and wrapped his hands around the steering wheel of his car, griping it tightly.

He was already thinking about what he was going to do after Akira was settled in his apartment, not sure of how much he would get away with.

At that point he didn’t really care.

The only sounds that filled his car on the way back to his apartment were those of Akira’s attempt to stop crying. He was careful to be quiet; to prevent himself saying anything that might further upset the man. He bit furiously at his lip, the small amount of pain giving him something to focus on, something to ground him.

When he pulled into his parking lot, he didn’t follow Akira out of the car. The bassist stopped before closing the door.

“You’re not coming up?” the blonde asked, his voice rough but curious.

“No, you go ahead. Yuu knows you’re coming so he should answer the door.”

“I have my key if he doesn’t,” Akira reminded him and it took him a moment to process the words.

Of course Akira had a key. The bassist had had a key ever since the two of them had lived together almost two years ago.

“Right,” he said, nodding, “So, yeah. Just go on up, get comfortable. There’s… something I need to take care of.”

Akira’s eyes narrowed knowingly. “Kouyou…”

“Just go, Aki.” He winced at how harsh his voice sounded, “I’ll be home soon. Don’t worry. This is something I’ve been meaning to do for a while now. I just have the time now.”

The words seemed to pacify the other man, who nodded and moved to shut the door. Kouyou waited until Akira was pulling the door to the apartment building open, disappearing behind it, before he started his car again.

 

-o-

 

The drive to Yutaka’s apartment didn’t take as long as it should have. Kouyou hadn’t finished thinking of the things he wanted to say to the drummer before he was idling in front of the man’s complex. He found an empty parking place before any of the residents started thinking the behavior was suspicious.

Kouyou sat inside of his car for a moment, collecting the thoughts that had gone through his mind in the past half-hour to one solid plan. He wasn’t going to do anything too rash, not right away.

He was going to inquire as to why the drummer had felt the need to leave Akira outside the studio, without even trying to find an alternate ride home for the bassist. He would listen quietly to the answer, and depending on how well Yutaka explained himself would determine what happened next.

He took a deep breath and stepped out of his car.

He took quick, measured steps to the door, trying to even his breathing. His fingernails dug into his palms, would probably leave small crescent-shaped indentations in the skin, but he didn’t care. He took the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator.

He kept repeating to himself to keep his cool, that they just needed to talk and that was all. He felt confident in his ability to remain calm. But before he even realized he’d walked the length of the hall, he was knocking on the drummer’s door and leaning against the opposite wall silently.

He could do this. The drummer probably did have a good reason. There had been plenty of times he’d yelled at Akira, himself, so he really couldn’t blame the man for getting irritated.

It was probably nothing. They only had to discuss it, and he would leave.

Then Yutaka answered the door, and everything that he had just went over escaped him and he could only think of one thing.

There wasn’t a feeling in the world more rewarding to Kouyou than that of his fist connecting with Yutaka’s jaw.

Only slightly less rewarding was watching the drummer reel back from the impact and stumble away from the door with his hand pressed against his cheek, spitting out curses that the guitarist hadn’t been aware Yutaka even knew.

“What the fuck?!”

Kouyou didn’t say anything in response. He immediately pushed himself into the man’s apartment, pulling the door closed behind him, not really concerned with how rude he must seem.

He wasn’t there to be polite.

Yutaka was still looking at him wildly. “What the fuck is your problem?”

Kouyou laughed under his breath, “Right now, Uke, you’re my problem.”

The blonde took a step closer to the drummer. Rational thought had completely escaped him. His fist swung again, this time hitting the younger man in the shoulder.

But Yutaka was better prepared for this blow. He grabbed the guitarist’s wrist and pushed it away from him. Kouyou staggered back a few steps and smiled wryly.

It had been a long time since Kouyou was in a fight with someone who would fight back.

His expression seemed to push Yutaka over the edge, the younger man lunged forward, grabbing on to Kouyou’s lose fitting t-shirt and pinning him against a nearby wall.

Kouyou was impressed at the other man’s strength, and the fury that was in his eyes.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, Takashima?” Yutaka bit out between gritted teeth. His breath smelled like metal and salt. Blood.

Kouyou pushed himself off the wall, his arms coming up to dislodge Yutaka’s hands from his shirt. He shoved the drummer back a few paces.

“Who the fuck do I think I am?” he asked in disbelief. “What about you, Uke? Did you honestly think you were gonna get away with it?”

Yutaka’s eyes widened, and Kouyou laughed, though he knew there was nothing comical about this situation. He closed his eyes for a moment, regretting the decision almost instantly when he felt knuckles smack against his cheek, Yutaka’s ring taking out a chunk of the skin there. It stung and ached at the same time and he stumbled back, disoriented for a second.

He could feel a small trickle of blood falling down the side of his face. He wiped at it with his hand needing to see it to really convince himself that it had just happened. He looked from his hand back to Yutaka. The drummer’s eyes told him everything.

The man had no intent of stopping there. Kouyou would have been disappointed if he had.

He lunged at the younger man, wrapping his arms around the drummer’s waist and shifting his weight so they both tumbled to the floor. His fingers gripped the other’s hair, fisting it tightly, and he focused all his strength into slamming the drummer’s head against the floor, pressing it into the ground and holding the other man down.

One hand closed around his wrist tightly, and he could feel where the drummer’s nails were digging into his wrist. The man’s other hand shot out and wrapped around his throat, the grip just as tight, and it was only until his lungs burned for oxygen that he tried to pull away. Yutaka’s hand only tightened.

They stared at each other for a long moment, trapped.

Then Yutaka whispered low and dangerous, “Get off of me.”

He thought maybe he was losing his sanity with his breath, but he let up on Yutaka’s head, and when the drummer’s fingers let go of his neck, he stood up.

“As if you’re actually worth it,” he scoffed, turning to walk away.

But he only got a few steps away before Yutaka’s foot came up to snag his ankle, kicking his feet out from under him. Had he been a little less disoriented, he probably could have caught himself before he fell, but the ground was coming up to fast and his arms were moving too slow.

The fall knocked what little breath he had from his lungs.

“You here to defend him, Takashima?” Yutaka shouted. Kouyou wasn’t sure when the drummer had gotten to his feet but when he looked up the other man was staring down at him. “Do you even know what you’re defending?”

He pushed up with his arms, quickly getting back on his feet. “You tell me. You’re the one that made him cry.”

“Because he didn’t bring that on himself.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means your best friend is a whore.”

Kouyou felt another rush of anger as the words sunk in. He advanced on the drummer again in an attempt to push the younger man against the wall. Powerful hands wrapped around the blondes biceps; Yutaka was paying more attention than he was the first time.

The guitarist could feel himself losing balance as he was pushed backwards. He stumbled for a moment before grabbing the nearby ledge that separated the drummer’s foyer and his sitting room.

It was too late before Kouyou realized that the small, glass vase that had been sitting on the ledge had been pushed to the floor. The vase shattered, sending debris across Yutaka’s carpet.

The sound pulled him out of his anger abruptly. It seemed to break through the violent air surrounding them, leaving them breathless and tense in the aftershock of the storm.

They were both silent for a long moment, and Kouyou’s eyes stayed locked on the stained glass shards at his feet.

Yutaka’s voice sounded sharp when he said, “Shit.”

They dropped to their knees at the same time, and four hands immediately moved to start collecting the broken glass. They worked quietly; the only sounds those of their still heavy breathing and the clink of glass on glass in their hands. It was too soon for words, and Kouyou was grateful for the small distraction that allowed him time to calm down.

He reached for a larger piece next to Yutaka’s knee at the same time the drummer’s hand shot out, and there was a sudden shooting pain that started at the base of his wrist and traveled up his arm. He felt his skin rip and split open and he dropped the glass gathered in his palm. He pulled his injured arm close to his chest.

“Fuck!” He exclaimed, cradling his arm in one hand and looking down to assess the damage.

“Shit, I’m sorry. Are you okay?” Yutaka’s urgent tone was accompanied by another flash of pain when the drummer reached out to grab his arm, turning it slightly to examine the cut.

“Stop fucking touching it, Uke. You’re gonna make it worse.”

“Because leaving you to bleed out on my living room floor would be the optimum choice.” The drummer countered, shooting him a pointed look.

“It’s fine. It’s not even that deep.”

“But it’s dirty.” Yutaka said, and he used his grip on Kouyou’s arm to get the guitarist to stand with him. “I think I have some antiseptic in my bathroom. You can wash it off in the kitchen sink.”

Yutaka was moving away before Kouyou could speak again, turning down a narrow hallway and disappearing into a room at the end. The guitarist looked down at his arm again and winced in pain, eyeing the blood trailing down to his elbow with disgust.

His feet carried him to the kitchen, his energy almost completely depleted from the fight, from the quick comedown from his high on adrenaline. He let his arm hang over the sink and watched the red drip slowly onto the metal for a moment before turning on the water.

He was just putting his arm under the facet when Yutaka appeared again, gauze, cotton balls and antiseptic bottle in hand. The drummer grimaced when he caught sight of the cut again.

“I didn’t mean—“

“I know you didn’t.” He said softly, hissing when the cold water ran over the cut, the pain flaring again. “I didn’t think you were trying to maim me or anything.”

Yutaka chuckled, “Do you need me to do anything?”

He nodded to the bottle and the cotton balls. “Just, hand me that stuff, would you?”

The drummer unscrewed the cap on the bottle, pressing the cotton to the top and tipping it. It was cold and wet when Yutaka let it fall into his palm, and the antiseptic burned when he pressed it against his arm.

“None of the glass broke off inside, did it?” Yutaka asked, and Kouyou eyed him questioningly for a moment.

“Since when have you known all this medical shit?”

“That’s kind of a standard question.”

Kouyou rolled his eyes, “Whatever. Give me the bandage.”

Yutaka watched as the blonde tried to wrap the material around the wound. He sighed impatiently, “Here, let me do it.”

It didn’t take very long for the drummer to properly dress the cut. Kouyou glared up at him. “I could have got it, eventually.”

“Yeah, and kept it from bleeding for all of, two seconds.”

“You know what, you just cut my arm open, so you can fuck off.”

The two of them laughed quietly under their breath. The tension hadn’t completely diminished. Kouyou still wanted to hear from the drummer’s mouth what the hell was going on.

He thought about different ways to start a civil conversation with the other man, but after a few moments of internal contemplation, he didn’t have to.

“I said some pretty awful things to him tonight.”

“I figured.”

“It’s just… I don’t even know why I stuck around long enough to talk to him. I should have just left.”

“What happened?”

“I heard them. They were in the break room after practice. God, I’m such a fucking idiot!”

“Heard who?”

Yutaka stopped for a second, his frown contorting his features showing his confusion. “Taka and Aki.”

“I don’t get it. How would that justify you blowing up? They are dating…”

Yutaka’s lips turned up in a smirk, a low humorless chuckle escaping his throat. “Because he’s supposed to be dating me.”

Kouyou stilled, his muscles tensing, and he turned to catch Yutaka’s gaze over his arm. The drummer’s eyes were flat, but there was a hint of rage and irony behind them. After a moment, the younger man looked back down to finish wrapping the bandage around Kouyou’s arm.

The guitarist wanted to say something. He didn’t know why, but the words struck something in him he hadn’t been aware of before. The news wasn’t overly surprising; he’d thought something more was going on between Akira and Yutaka. But the confirmation, the actual words, were startling, and in a way that left him speechless.

He was angry, and not at any one particular person. That was new. He’d been so convinced of Yutaka’s guilt in this situation that he’d overlooked the possibility of Akira’s involvement. He figured that was to be expected though.

“Fuck…”

The drummer looked up at the sudden outburst, “Sorry… did I hurt you?”

“No.” Yutaka had finished wrapping the cut. Kouyou flexed his arm a little, making sure that the bandage wasn’t going to come off before he walked to the other side of the room. “It’s just, this whole thing is so fucked… and I’ve gotten myself involved.”

Yutaka glanced down at the floor, his eyebrows pulled together in a frown. “Don’t blame yourself for defending your best friend.”

“But you have every right to be angry with him, to have yelled at him.” the guitarist inhaled deeply, “I’m just so tired of cleaning up his messes.”

Yutaka didn’t respond.

“So, I take it he told you he broke it off with Taka.”

The drummer nodded, and Kouyou noticed the tears starting to form in his eyes. He sat down and pushed his fingers against his temples.

“Yu—”

“I’ve never put myself out to a person like I did with him. I’m usually careful about this shit,” he paused, obviously holding back his emotion, “I let it all go with him. I trusted him.”

Kouyou nodded, sitting in the chair across from the other man. He rapped his knuckles against the wood absently. “He’s easy to trust, at first. But… he’s not really trustworthy. He’s juvenile, but you can’t mistake that for innocence.”

Yutaka chuckled, but the sound came out more like a sob. “I was stupid. I should have… I don’t know... I just… I thought this was real, you know? I thought he actually wanted to be with me.”

“I wouldn’t jump to conclusions. Akira doesn’t really know what he wants.” The words were meant to be somewhat comforting, but they seemed to push the drummer over the edge of his control.

He covered his face with both hands, quietly sobbing into them. It wasn’t something that Kouyou ever thought he would see. Yutaka normally hid everything he was feeling, to see him go from one extreme to the next in such a short span of time was not something the blonde had prepared himself for.

The episode didn’t last very long, just a few minutes. After the younger man had collected himself he looked up from his hands, wiping away remnants of moisture from his face. He sniffed at glanced over at Kouyou.

“Sorry. I didn’t really want you to see that.”

“It’s alright. I’m pretty used to it.”

“Yeah, you probably are.” Yutaka rubbed at his cheek and ran a hand through his disheveled hair.

“You alright?” He asked and the drummer shook his head almost instantly.

“I don’t know what I’m feeling right now.” Yutaka admitted. “Logic says I should be angry, but I stopped being angry the minute I left him standing in the parking lot at the studio.”

“You’re hurt. It’s understandable.”

“But I feel bad for what I said, you know? I felt better after I yelled, but when I got in my car and actually thought about what I’d said… It’s not that it wasn’t true… I guess I’m just more angry with myself for letting him get to me like that than anything.”

“You shouldn’t blame yourself for this.”

“But it’s my fault.”

Kouyou was confused. He shook his head. “How? How is any of this your fault?”

“I’m the one that went and fell in love with him.”


	11. I'm Painfully Charmed by the Question

Recently, it seemed like Yuu had spent more time with Akira outside the band than he ever had. It was strange, really. The guitarist didn’t spend a lot of time with any of his bandmates save Kouyou. He found that to be the easiest way to avoid personal conflict.

He should have known better though, he reasoned. Kouyou was Akira’s best friend and therefore the man Akira would always go to when the bassist happened to find himself in trouble. Which, Yuu thought with no attempt to veil his disgust, happened more often with Akira than with anyone Yuu had ever met before or since.

So, he’d actually started to grow accustomed to the dramatics that was Suzuki Akira’s life pretty abruptly in the last few weeks. That fact did not, however, make him any more inclined to help.

Basically, he’d just come to accept it as a necessary annoyance and tried his damnedest to stay well out of the line of fire when everything inevitably exploded around them.

It was getting harder to ignore the ticking bomb now.

“Where’s Kouyou?” he asked when the bassist let himself into the apartment, dropping a canvas bag by the door but not bothering to remove his shoes.

Yuu thought about reminding him, but figured the other guitarist would probably be too tightly wound to really notice something so small anyway.

“He said he had something take care of,” Akira responded, shrugging halfheartedly and stepping lightly through the living room to sit on the couch next to him.

Yuu wanted to comment, wanted to ask if this supposed errand had anything to do with the phone call Akira had made earlier. But he wasn’t really one to show genuine interest in other’s lives. Besides, he thought, he should definitely have that conversation with Kouyou, not Akira. If he ever got curious enough to actually ask, that was.

“You want anything to drink?” he asked instead.

“You’re offering refreshments in someone else’s apartment?” Akira said, but he was smiling somewhat, seeming almost grateful behind the sarcasm. Yuu figured the bassist was probably thankful for the distraction from his problems.

“Only because you look like shit,” he replied. “Seriously, did you get hit by a train?”

The bassist winced visibly at the question.

“That’s kind of what it feels like.”

If Yuu thought Akira wanted to talk about this thing that was obviously bothering him, he might have actually inquired further. But there was something about the words that seemed final, like they required no further elaboration.

The bassist sighed heavily and let his body fall across the couch dramatically. Yuu could tell that the other man was trying not to cry, but honestly, Akira was the worst at attempting to stifle those choking, sniffling noises.

He frowned and set his guitar against the leg of the couch, sitting back and placing his hand on the bassist’s back, trying not to appear awkward. Consolation wasn’t really his thing, but the sobs that shook the other man’s body were too pathetic to ignore.

He thought for a long moment that Akira wouldn’t talk, would just let the warmth of his hand bleed through the thin t-shirt separating their skin and cry.

But then the blonde said, “Yutaka yelled at me.”

If he hadn’t been listening for any sound that remotely resembled actual words, he probably wouldn’t have caught it.

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the statement. “Yutaka yelled? Like, he was angry?”

The blonde nodded, his face rubbing against the throw pillow under him, and sniffled again. He didn’t say anything else, just lay there, periodically pulling in broken, hitching breaths.

Yuu didn’t really know what would cause the drummer to be angry, but he imagined it was something bad if it had forced Akira mostly silent.

They sat for a long time like that; quiet, lost in their own thoughts. Akira’s sobs eventually calmed and his breathing evened out, his muscles loosening until his body was limp and Yuu was certain he’d fallen asleep. Only then did the guitarist take his hand away from the other man’s back and he shifted forward on the couch to look at the composition laid out on the coffee table in front of him.

He checked the time. It’d been nearly forty-five minutes since Kouyou had left to pick the bassist up. He wondered idly what could have possibly been so important that the other guitarist had felt the need to take care of it tonight. Kouyou wasn’t necessarily lazy, but motivation was certainly something the other lacked.

It wasn’t really his business though, he supposed. He just hoped Kouyou didn’t leave him alone with Akira all night. He didn’t think he was capable of the comfort and patience that would be needed of him if the bassist were to wake up.

He hummed, turning back to the sheets on the table and erasing a whole measure before restarting the intro to the bridge.

He was just finishing up the melody for the chorus when the silence was interrupted again. He looked up in time to see Kouyou stepping into the apartment lazily, throwing his keys on the small table just inside the door and toeing off his shoes. Kouyou moved quietly into the living room, but Yuu noticed the slight stagger to his steps.

The guitarist looked awful.

“Jesus Christ, what happened to you?”

The blonde shook his head, his hand waving dismissively. “I’ll explain later. Where’s Akira?” Kouyou’s voice was flat, tired but determined.

Yuu poked at the softly snoring lump of bassist beside him. Akira shifted slightly from the disturbance before opening his eyes and looking around confusedly. When his eyes landed on Kouyou, he sat up slowly.

The blonde guitarist didn’t give his friend time to get completely oriented with his surroundings before glaring at him pointedly, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the entryway. “Care to explain what’s going on, Akira?”

“What—“

“I know you know what I’m talking about, so don’t fucking act like you don’t. I’m tired, my arm hurts, and I gave our drummer a black eye that will probably be visible for the next week-and-a-half. I’m done with your games.”

“You… what?"

Kouyou’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and his voice dropped to a mere whisper. “Tell me what the fuck is going on.”

Yuu knew he should probably leave, should let them have this conversation alone. But to escape, he would have to pass by Kouyou, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to go near the other guitarist at the moment. He opted to stay where he was, staring at a spot on the wall to avoid looking at either of them, and listening intently.

“I… I didn’t… I mean…”

“You didn’t what, Aki? You didn’t mean to cheat on your boyfriend, on your… boyfriends?” The last word came out awkward, like it was difficult for Kouyou to say. It only confused Yuu further. “Or did you just not mean for them to find out?”

“I wasn’t…” the bassist stuttered, sounding on the edge of tears again, “Jesus, Kouyou you know it wasn’t like that!”

“Then what the hell was it like?”

“I just didn’t want to hurt anyone!”

“Great job you did with that one, Aki.”

“Fuck, just… You don’t know anything about it!”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

Yuu let his eyes shift over to Kouyou, who was still leaning against the wall. The guitarist looked absolutely livid and for the first time, Yuu spotted the bandage wrapped around the other’s forearm. He wondered how he’d missed it before.

Akira sobbed, the sound breaking through the tense silence like a knife. Yuu felt his stomach clench. He’d never seen the two of them fight. Sure, Kouyou would get annoyed and yell, but he’d never actually witnessed the guitarist genuinely angry with the other man.

“I meant to break up with Taka. I’ve been meaning to for weeks but… I just… I can’t… I try… and I just can’t. I know I hurt Yutaka. I just don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

“Well, you better figure it out, because you really fucked up this time, Aki.”

“I know—”

“No, I don’t think you do. You call me from the studio, crying and all vague and I fucking felt bad for you, Aki!”

“I’m sorry—”

“I went to his fucking house! I punched him, Akira! Before I even gave him time to explain himself, I punched him, because I thought he’d hurt you! I thought... And fuck! It’s your fault. You did this, do you understand?!”

“I’ll fix it.” Akira said.

“You better.” Kouyou pushed himself away from the wall, heading towards the hallway. “You can stay here tonight, but I want you gone in the morning.”

“Kouyou!”

But Kouyou wasn’t listening anymore. The sound of the guitarist’s bedroom door slamming shut reverberated off the walls, echoing around them like the broken, half-choked sobs Akira couldn’t keep in.

Yuu didn’t know what to do. A large part of him wanted to leave, to pack his stuff back in his bag and head back to his apartment for the night. But he doubted leaving the two alone in Kouyou’s house was a good idea.

But he really didn’t want to be in the middle of this. He knew if he stayed there, he would undoubtedly be pulled into it somehow.

Another part of him was very curious now, and confused.

He stood up, walking carefully to his bag sitting in the corner and fishing out his unopened pack of cigarettes. He’d already finished his first pack before Kouyou came home. He ripped through the cellophane and tore the aluminum covering, pulling one out and sticking it between his lips.

He hadn’t realized that his hands were shaking before. The flame from his lighter flickered, unstable. Had he been the band’s lyricist, he might have come up with some clever metaphor about the air around him and the flame. But he wasn’t, and his mind was too jumbled to think of anything clever just now.

He turned back to the bassist, who was still seated on the couch. He slid the fresh pack across the coffee table toward the other man.

Akira shook his head.

“Come on, it’ll make you feel better and you know it.”

The blonde sighed and grabbed a cigarette. Yuu sat down next him, offering a light.

“Thanks.” the bassist mumbled. He buried his head in his hands. It was the first time that Yuu had really noticed how weathered they were. It was easy to forget that Akira played an instrument similar to his own. He didn’t really understand why; it was just something that slipped his mind on frequent occasions.

“So,” Yuu said, watching the end of Akira’s cigarette burn down, “Uhm, not that you have to or anything, but I’m really confused. You want to explain to me what the hell that was about?”

The bassist rubbed his face tiredly, letting his chin rest against his upturned palm and bringing the cigarette to his lips for a long drag. He was silent, holding the noxious smoke in his lungs for a long moment before exhaling slow and long. When his eyes met Yuu’s, they were rimmed red—from both sleep and tears—but they looked sharp. Emotions were sometimes hard to see for the guitarist, but Akira’s were clearly written in the dark irises, in the pupils that were blown wider than normal.

“Apparently,” the younger man said, his voice thick with emotion, but steadier than they had been when he’d been arguing with Kouyou, “he decided to go to Yutaka’s house and try to beat the shit out of him.”

“Try?”

“Yutaka’s stronger than he looks.”

“So is Kouyou.”

The bassist shrugged, looking back to his fingers wrapped loosely around the cigarette before continuing. “Kouyou’s cheek was swollen. I’m sure Yutaka held his own.”

Yuu nodded. “So, anyway. Why would Kouyou feel the need to go to Yutaka’s house to “try to beat the shit out of him”?”

“He thought Yutaka hurt me.”

“I thought that’s why you were crying earlier. When you got here.”

“I… I was crying because he scared me. I was afraid—I am afraid—that I’ve completely fucked everything up… I have fucked everything up.”

“How?”

Akira’s eyes narrowed, and he turned to Yuu again. Their gazes locked and he got the distinct feeling that the bassist was trying to size him up. “You really didn’t figure that out?”

Yuu shrugged. He didn’t want to come across presumptuous. “I don’t know, I mean, I know you slept with Yutaka. Was it more than a one night thing?”

“Yeah. A lot more than that.”

The bassist took a quarter of an hour to explain what had been going on over the past few months. Yuu tried to make it seem that he hadn’t already known half of what the bassist was telling him, unaware how successful his attempt was turning out.

Akira finished, sniffing quietly. He had calmed down for the most part, at least his breathing had evened out and he hadn’t gotten teary for a good twenty minutes. Yuu rubbed the back of his neck. What could he possibly say?

He decided patting the blonde’s shoulder was the best route to take.

Akira glanced over at the older man. There was a short moment of silence before the bassist started laughing.

“What?”

The blonde reached over and mimicked Yuu’s movements. “Thanks man, appreciate it.”

“Fuck you, I’m trying to help.”

Akira smiled and leaned his head against the guitarist’s shoulder. “I know. I really do appreciate it. You’re just so awkward.”

“Yeah, I know. It doesn’t really bother me.”

He felt the bassist’s smile fade against his shoulder. Akira’s hand that wasn’t holding his cigarette clenched into a loose fist and hit against Yuu’s knee.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do, Yuu. I mean, obviously I have to fix this mess, but… I don’t know how.”

“Breaking up with one of them would probably be a good idea.”

Akira chuckled humorlessly. “Yeah, thanks for the advice.”

“You already said you wanted to break it off with Taka. What’s been stopping you?” he asked, and he thought that maybe it was a little over the line, probably not something he should be asking about. But he figured he was already deep enough into it now to really care about privacy. Akira was an open person by nature, so he didn’t really feel bad about the question.

The answer came easily, as if the bassist had already asked himself this before. “Because I love him.”

“So do you feel the same way about Yutaka?”

“No,” He sighed, sitting up and looking at the guitarist. “I’ve never felt the way I do with Yutaka with anyone else. It’s a different feeling. I can’t explain it.”

Yuu tried to make sense of what Akira just told him. After going over the information a few more times he thought it best that he take a different approach to the problem. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, still convincing himself he really wanted to do this.

“Okay. This is something my mom did with me whenever I was having a problem like this. So just, go with it.”

Akira looked at him, his face unreadable. “Okay.”

“So I’m either going to ask you a question, or say a word, or phrase and your going to say the first thing that comes to mind. No matter how stupid it might seem, your not allowed to think about the answer. Got it?”

“How…” he sighed, “Okay. Go.”

“Color.”

“Green.”

“Age.”

“23.”

“Ceiling.”

“Floor?”

“Lamp.”

“…Shade?”

“CD.”

“Gazette.”

“Cloud.”

“Strife.”

Yuu paused, blinking several times in confusion. “What?”

Akira looked sheepish for a moment. “You know… Cloud Strife.”

“Like… the game character?”

The bassist nodded.

“Okay… maybe I should try something different. What do you do when you’re sad?”

“Cry.”

“Most prized material possession.”

“Bass.”

“Most prized non-material possession?”

“…my first bass.”

Yuu narrowed his eyes. “That’s a material possession, idiot.”

Akira shook his head emphatically, “It’s gone now.”

“Whatever. What’s your passion?”

“Music.”

“Place to relax?”

“Studio.”

“Who do you miss?”

“My mom.”

“Happiest memory?”

“Disorder… like, the album.”

“Yeah, got that. Closest friend?”

“Kouyou.”

“Someone to spend the rest of your life with.”

“Yutaka.”

Akira seemed surprised by his own answer, his brow furrowing.

Yuu smiled, “There you go.”

“How’d you do that?”

“I’m amazing.”

The two sat without saying anything for a moment. Akira appeared to be lost in his thoughts. Yuu hadn’t been sure if his mom’s old trick was going to work, but apparently it had made something inside the other man click. He was actually happy that he decided to talk to Akira; happy that he had helped.

Without any warning the blonde threw his arms around the guitarist, burying his head into a shoulder, “Arigatou, Yuu.”

Yuu didn’t hesitate to push the younger man away from him. “It was nothing. Now get off.”

Akira wiped a few stagnant tears from the corners of his eyes. “I’m going to be honest with you. I didn’t think that was going to accomplish anything.”

“Yeah, it took my mom like ten tries to finally convince me that it worked.”

“Your mom’s pretty cool.”

“She made me. What did you expect?”

Akira just laughed and sat back against the arm of the couch. “I really do appreciate your help, you know?”

“Yeah, but you still have to figure out what you’re going to do now.”

The words brought the sober, worried expression back to the bassist’s face. Yuu didn’t think he’d ever seen someone’s mouth turn down in a frown so quickly.

“I know,” the blonde said. “This… isn’t going to be easy.”

“Nothing worth anything ever is.”

Akira nodded and settled further into the couch, spreading his legs out and throwing them over the back. It took a moment for Yuu, but he caught on.

“I don’t think so. You’re sleeping on the floor.”

But Akira was already snoring.


	12. Leave Me in this Empty Space

Since the two of them had gotten together, Akira had only felt the need to knock on Takanori’s front door twice. One, when he had come to break up with the vocalist two weeks ago, and now. He figured it was only out of respect, this time, because his reasons for coming to the younger man’s apartment were no different than they had been the night he hadn’t been strong enough to say no.

He had the strength now; there was no doubt of that. He had the strength and the motivation.

That didn’t stop it from hurting, from ripping into him like a blow to the chest.

Takanori was surprised to find him standing outside, the shock showed on the vocalist’s face by perfectly furrowed brows and the thin line of his lips. But the surprise only lasted a moment, before the man’s face was smoothing out and he was leaning against the doorframe, head tilted to the side in resigned acceptance.

They had both known this was coming. It had only been a matter of time.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Akira said, realizing for the first time that his throat was sore with his effort to keep his tears at bay, but when he tried to blink them away, it only served to allow the first to slide down his cheek.

He could see the muscles in Takanori’s throat work to swallow thickly, the vocalist’s eyes shutting for a short time before opening and locking on his again. “I know.”

“I-I don’t… I never meant to hurt anyone,” he had to fight the words to get them to come out, and he felt his whole body shake with a sob.

“I know,” the younger man said, more confident this time.

He went to say something else, but the words got caught, seemed unimportant now, and he pulled his arms up to cross over his chest, hugging them close to himself. His knees tremble under his weight.

“Jesus, get in here before you fucking freeze.” He felt a warm hand wrap around one of his arms, tugging it from its place around his middle, and before he realized what was happening, he was inside the vocalist’s apartment, the door closing softly behind him.

He was led to the living room, though he could have walked through this apartment blind and deaf. But he didn’t complain about the treatment, felt that he owed to it the other man to let him have some control over the situation. He could feel in the way Takanori’s hand was shaking that the vocalist was straining against himself. Straining to do what, he wasn’t sure.

The couch seemed softer than usual, coaxing him further into it, trying to remind him of all the reasons he wanted to stay here in this apartment forever, safe from the world outside it.

But not safe from himself and his mistakes.

“I’ve fucked everything up.”

Takanori sat down on the coffee table in front of him, their knees touching just barely, a whisper of contact meant to reassure. The gesture made him want to cry harder, because, if anything, the vocalist should be shouting at him, should be telling him to leave and never come back.

Sometimes, he was shocked by how much Takanori cared for other people, behind the independent, unfazed façade the vocalist wore. When it became necessary, the younger man was more capable than any of the rest of them of comforting others, of reassuring them they were not alone. Akira had admitted his discovery to the other once, and Takanori had said, in the soft drawl he only used with his friends, that he enjoyed human contact more than he liked to admit, that it reminded him there were others who shared his dreams, others who would fight with him, even for him.

The bassist wondered then, how much of the contact was meant to comfort not only Akira, but the vocalist himself as well.

“Do you love him?”

He tensed at the words, the muscles in his stomach contracting so quickly, it was painful.

“How long have you known?” he asked. Because it wasn’t a question of how the vocalist actually knew, of course Takanori knew, ever the silent observer among them, but how long the other man had let Akira believe he was getting away with it, how long had the words been hanging between them, unspoken but weighty.

“He and I were talking yesterday before practice. He seemed really weirded out that I was wearing your shirt. He’s not so great with… keeping secrets.”

“He told you?”

Takanori shook his head. “It wasn’t so hard to see after that though. You’ve been distant lately, coming to practice with him, leaving with him. I probably would have noticed before, if I’d wanted to.”

He nodded.

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your apologies, Akira.” The words weren’t angry, but yielding, slow, too easy acquiescence. “I know it wasn’t your intention to hurt anyone. I’m not saying this isn’t your fault, because it is, and I’m not going to lie to you. It hurt, and I’m still fucking pissed, but I don’t need you apologizing. Not now.”

He nodded again, everything starting to come together in his mind. It wasn’t that Akira was wrong in apologizing, it was simply that Takanori wasn’t ready to hear it yet, wasn’t ready to accept it, wasn’t going to act like everything was okay. Honesty was something the other man valued, a little contradicting of his usual sarcastic nature. But Takanori was not a man to lie about his emotions. Cover them, conceal them, yes. But deny them completely?

Never.

He would not tell Akira that things could go back to normal until he was absolutely certain it could.

“I don’t…” Takanori paused, taking a deep breath and puffing his cheeks out in a heavy sigh, “I don’t want to know what happened. I don’t want to know when, or how long, or why. I don’t…”

The vocalist’s voice trailed off, his gaze lifting to lock with the bassist’s. Red rimmed Takanori’s eyes. He looked so tired.

Someday, when this didn’t hurt so bad, when it didn’t sting to think about it, Akira knew Takanori would ask, would question his intentions, would need to question when and how long and why. He didn’t know how ready he would be to answer when the time came, but he knew it would eventually happen. He had learned, from many years of friendship and even more from the last six months that Takanori was actually a very predictable man. Impulsive, yes, he lived on spontaneity, but Akira had learned to anticipate it. Their relationship had been good, if only in that respect.

“You never answered my question. Do you love him?”

And it was too late now, too late for lies, too late to try to find some way to deflect the question. He had come here to come clean, to be honest, and he felt he owed the other man at least that much.

But he couldn’t make himself say it, couldn’t make the words come out. Instead, he just nodded again. His hand itched to reach forward, to fit his fingers between the vocalist’s, to feel the calluses, some from guitar strings, and others more prominent from endless hours touching pencil to paper. He ached for the solid contact, the tangible proof of the other man’s remaining presence.

But he couldn’t reach forward; he couldn’t touch. He didn’t have that power, didn’t have that privilege.

“We’re not okay, are we?” he asked, though he knew the question was pointless.

He was surprised to find that as Takanori let his head shake slowly from side to side, the vocalist released his hold on his tears, the small translucent drop sliding easily down the swell of the other man’s cheek to fall to the floor between them. And somehow, the tears were a worse answer than the obvious decline of reassurance that their relationship remained intact. It solidified his fears.

They would never be the same.

“But we will be.” Takanori said, leaning forward a little so that their knees pressed more firmly against each other, a warning almost, to not give up hope. Because Akira was stupid to hope for anything, but Takanori had said at one time that he loved the older man’s blind faith, that it was somehow reliable in its uncertainty.

Akira had never understood the other man’s oddly illogical thinking. He’d accepted that it would never make sense to him, and that it would probably never make sense to anyone else either.

He was content, somehow, in that confusion, in the fact that there were things he didn’t have to get, and that Takanori wouldn’t blame him for it.

“I’m not ready to give up yet,” Takanori continued, “This isn’t the end.”

And of course it wasn’t the end. There was still the band to think about, to keep together. The band was his reason to keep going.

The band was Takanori’s reason to live. The vocalist had only dreams of music, only dreams of succeeding in showing everyone who’d doubted him that he was worthy, that he could make it, and he could reach out to people in the process. Takanori lived to communicate with others, lived to reach, lived to teach others to dream.

It was what had drawn the five of them together in the first place.

But he’d gone and messed everything up, just like he always did. And things would never be the same, for any of them.

“I miss my best friend,” Akira said, and it wasn’t meant to make the other man feel guilty, that would have been unfair, and Takanori didn’t deserve that.

But the vocalist nodded, a small, sad smile spreading across his lips, “I’ve missed my best friend for the last six months.”

The words were said in the same bitterness he felt himself, for a relationship that was probably decided futile before it even began.

“You’ll come back to me, right?” he asked, desperately. “Promise me.”

“I can’t do that, Aki.” It wasn’t because Takanori didn’t want to, it wasn’t because the vocalist was blaming him for all of this, though that blame would not have been ill placed. Instead, it was simply for the fact that Takanori did not make promises he potentially couldn’t keep. “You know I can’t do that.”

Akira nodded again, tearing his eyes away from the other man’s, looking over Takanori’s shoulder down the hall, into the bedroom he’d spent many of his nights the last few months. Suddenly, he felt suffocated, surrounded by memories, his senses assaulted by everything that reminded him of the other man. He noticed--surprised it had evaded him before now--that the vocalist hadn’t asked the one question that probably meant the most to him. He understood why, though. The other man would not put himself at risk to get hurt any more than he already was.

“I never stopped loving you.” He said, and even with the distance between them, he could feel the vocalist stiffen. “I… I thought you should know that. I know you don’t want to know why, but… it wasn’t because I don’t love you.”

When their eyes met again, Akira could see the tears had started to well along the other man’s lids again, but this time, the pain seemed less piercing.

Takanori nodded.

They sat in silence for a long moment, heads bent, and had they been any closer their foreheads probably would have been pressed together. As it were, that was an intimacy that they would probably never experience again.

“I should go,” he said, standing up and rubbing his hands down his thighs anxiously.

Takanori followed him to the front door again. “I’ll uhm… get your stuff together, put it in a box… you can come pick it up this weekend or something."

He didn’t comment on the fact that ‘or something’ had sounded almost instinctual.

He stopped just outside the door and turned to the vocalist once more. “I’ll see you soon?”

Takanori wasted no time, “Soon.”

He nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t say anything else, just turned and walked away from the door, ignored the twinge in his stomach at the sound of wood fitting inside the frame again.

The tears were already making their way down his face again by the time he made it back to his car.

 

-o-

 

The liquid burned the roof of Yutaka’s mouth the minute it passed though his lips. The drummer cursed under his breath, placing his tea back on the countertop. It had been the third time he had tried to take a drink of it in the past five minutes, each time resulting in the same stinging discomfort.

He sighed, and poured the contents of the mug down the drain, filling it back up with lukewarm water from the faucet. It soothed his tongue and was helping with the extreme cottonmouth he had been fighting for the past hour. However the taste was dull, unsatisfying.

It wasn’t too entirely early. He had yet to look at any of the clocks in his apartment, but judging from the amount of light filtering in through the curtains over the windows in his living room, he guessed it to be a little after ten o’clock. It was much later than he usually woke up, actually. However, he was utterly exhausted, groggy from bouts of too heavy sleep interrupted too frequently by dreams about fist-fights and emotional conversations.

His thoughts wandered to the encounter he had had with Kouyou the night before. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had hit him that hard. He absently felt around his eye, surveying the remaining damage. It was going to be difficult to hide, that was for sure.

It wasn’t even the fight that stuck so vividly in his mind. It was the conversation that followed. How Kouyou’s attitude had completely changed, how he hadn’t been able to control his emotions. Yutaka didn’t like the idea of being out of control, especially when it came to himself.

It’d also been the first time he had openly told anyone that he loved Akira.

Akira.

His stomach dropped. It was almost as if he was going to be sick. Yutaka hugged his abdomen, confused by the sudden nausea. His mouth was dry again, drier that it had been before, and he could feel the hair on the back of his neck start to stand on end.

Something wasn’t right.

He could feel it.

He toyed with the thought of calling the bassist, but shook the idea away almost instantly. He’d promised to give himself time to sort through his emotions before talking with the other man. He shouldn’t put either one of them in that position.

His stomach turned again.

He thought over what had happened before the incident with Akira. He poured over memories, trying to determine whether or not he had forgotten something.

That had to be it. He’d probably left his phone or something at the studio. It wouldn’t be the first time he had done something like that.

He took a deep breath, reassuring himself that everything was fine, that he would be able to go pick it up the next morning during the band’s next practice.

That was something he wasn’t really looking forward to. It was highly doubtful that he would see Akira or Takanori before the morning, and there is no room during work to discuss personal problems. He had to be careful to separate the two. It was one thing for a relationship to be ruined, but it could not, would not, stand in the way of his band.

The feeling seemed to have dulled a little. The drummer took another deep breath and reached for his water setting on the table. His hand brushed against something else, something he wished it hadn’t.

He looked down at the table and saw that lying next to the ceramic mug was his cell phone.

The feeling grew larger, like someone had actually tore part of his stomach out this time.

It wasn’t thirty seconds from the discovery of the phone that it started to dance across the tabletop, the screen lit up to inform him of the caller.

Kouyou.

He snatched the device from the tabletop, pressing it to his ear, “Hello?”

“Yutaka?”

The voice wasn’t one he was expecting. “Yuu? Why are you calling me from Kouyou’s phone?”

“We just got a call from the hospital… “

The words hit Yutaka like a ton of bricks. All of the air was forced out of his lungs, his throat tightened and his stomach felt like it was going to collapse on itself. Though he knew what the other man was about to tell him, hearing to words only confirmed his fears.

“Akira’s been in an accident.”


	13. On a Restrained Swaying Sword

The hospital smelled too clean, antiseptic mixed with harsh cleaning chemicals. The stench was enough to cause a small nauseating lump to form in the back of Yutaka’s throat. He sat in the waiting room, staring at one of the spots on the carpet below his feet. He wasn’t sure if it was part of some sort of pattern or if it was stained from vomit and the ammonia that had been used to clean it up. He had a sickening feeling it was the latter, but he didn’t say anything, just kept staring. He’d spent the last half-hour studiously refusing to meet anyone’s gaze, picking at a loose thread on his jeans and trying not to go insane.

He had only spoken once; to ask Yuu if they knew anything yet, if the doctors had come out to talk to them. The guitarist had shaken his head and gone back to try to get Kouyou to sit down. Yutaka had left them alone, finding his own chair in the back corner of the waiting room.

He could still hear Yuu talking. His voice soft, soothing, and it should have been surprising coming out of his mouth, but for some reason, it was comforting, if only to remind Yutaka that he wasn’t alone. Kouyou, he was absolutely certain, hadn’t said a word since he’d arrived.

He could hear other things as well, beeping heart monitors and the nurses’ shoes squeaking against the linoleum floor. Other patients were sitting around him, waiting for their turn to see a doctor, bleeding and sneezing and coughing and retching and if Yutaka didn’t get out of there soon he was sure he was going to start screaming in frustration.

He looked up at the nurse that was sitting behind the front desk. She looked to be busy, shuffling papers from one side of the desk to the other, looking over patient’s files, and tending to angry emergency room patrons trying to jump in line. He sighed and pushed himself off of the uncomfortable plastic chair he’d grudgingly taken upon arriving.

He approached the nurse, scratching the back of his neck. When he spoke, he tried to make his voice soft. He knew that she must be having a difficult morning—he didn’t envy nurses one bit for the work they did everyday—and he didn’t want to make it any worse.

“Excuse me miss, is there a cafeteria close by? Or even just a vending machine?”

She looked up at him over here thin, metal frames and forced a smile. “There is a small café.” She explained to him quickly how to get to it, her voice was hurried but sweet.

He thanked her and walked back over to the corner that he and his bandmates were occupying. It looked as though Yuu had finally gotten the other guitarist to sit down, though Kouyou’s legs were still bouncing off of the hospital carpet.

He cleared his throat. “Do you guys want anything to eat? There’s a café around the corner.”

Kouyou looked up at him, his eyes red and worried, and said, “Coffee.” As he reached into his pocket, Yutaka could hear the clinking of a few coins.

The drummer held up his hand.

“I got it.” He looked at Yuu who shook his head. The older man had always been particular about the time of day he ate or drank.

“Call me if something changes.” He held up his phone. Both of them nodded and he turned and walked down the other hallway. Thankful to be moving, reminding himself every few steps to get Kouyou a coffee. It was better than allowing his mind to wander in the waiting room.

He was thankful for the menial task, even if it was only to distract him for a short time.

The café was larger than he thought it would be, more like a small food court with short lines of men and women all dressed in the same sea foam green scrubs. The uniform, the monotony of everything in the hospital, was somewhat comforting, if not maddening in a strangely unfamiliar way.

He took slow, measured steps through the café, trying to make himself appear as small and unimportant as possible. The people surrounding him were comfortable, were where they were supposed to be, and their easy chatter filled the air, pressing down on him like white noise. He could make no sense of any one conversation, but he caught snippets of various statements, curious inquiries.

He inhaled deeply and fit himself at the back of the line for the coffee shop, keeping an eye on the menu hung high on the wall.

Before he finished reading the prices of the dessert drinks he was faced with the young, smiling woman behind the counter. She was pretty, he thought absently, probably not much younger than himself. He wanted to reach over and grab her shoulders, shake her incessantly and ask her what her problem was. How could she be smiling? How could she be happy? Didn’t she know that just beyond the wall behind her lie many sick and dying people?

But he didn’t shake her, and he kept his questions to himself. Instead, he tried to smile back. He was certain he failed miserably.

“Can I help you?” She asked, her head tilting to the side curiously. The action was familiar, one he’d grown used to seeing from someone else.

His stomach lurched. He’d been trying to keep his mind completely clear of thoughts of the other man, and until now he’d been remarkably successful. It had been surprisingly easy to deny his mind’s insistent coaxing toward the bassist.

But now all his efforts were shot to hell.

“I, uhm,” he cleared his throat, closing his eyes for a moment and inhaling again. “I need coffee. Black. The largest size you have and—” he searched the menu again, “a… muffin. Cinnamon.”

Her smile didn’t fade as she rang in his requests. “Is that all?”

He told her to add a water to it. He knew it wouldn’t do anything to help his aching throat but he figured it was better to try. Yutaka handed the women a crinkled bill. When she went to give him the change, he waved her hand away.

“Keep it,” He felt that she deserved some sort of praise for being able to maintain a smile all day. He knew that even during lives it was hard to force happiness, but it was expected and therefore had to be done.

He moved down to the other side of the counter, allowing the next person in line to order. He glanced around the room again, this time he noticed that he wasn’t alone in his anxiety.

Several feet away from him a woman picked absently at a sandwich in front of her, eyeing her cell phone every few seconds. Her face looked so pained. Yutaka could tell that she was probably just as clueless as he was in their respective situations.

His thoughts returned to his own predicament; the reason he was in a hospital in the first place, why he was making desperate, feeble attempts to distract himself.

Akira.

He had to remind himself to breathe, because just thinking the name was enough to knock the wind from his lungs. He knew absolutely nothing of the bassist’s condition, having been denied information time and time again. And the longer he waited, the more horrifying possibilities came unbidden to mind.

Akira had been in an accident, was rushed to the hospital along with the five other people involved. The bassist hadn’t left the emergency room, so was probably still in some sort of danger. He knew nothing.

And his mind wandered back to yesterday, when he’d left Akira sitting on the curb in front of the studio. He knew that probably had nothing to do with the accident; that it wasn’t his fault, but guilt was insistent, sometimes completely inescapable.

Dejection hit him suddenly as his mind repeated, with crushing vividness, the last words he had said to Akira.

He crossed his arms over his stomach, his nails digging into his skin painfully. His jaw clenched against the pressure in his throat and he swallowed reflexively. His skin felt hot and tears gathered along the rims of his eyes. He tried to blink them away.

He grabbed his own phone out of his pocket glancing at the outside screen. It was black. He flipped it open to see if someone had called him, just in case he hadn’t felt the vibrations inside his pocket. But the generic wallpaper was also blank. Nothing.

Distantly he heard his last name being called. He looked up from his phone, a drop of moisture falling down his cheek. His eyes met another of the café worker’s, who was holding a cardboard cup holder and brown bag.

“Are you Uke-san?”

He nodded and took the items from him, apologizing for not paying attention. He responded with a robotic sounding ‘Have a nice day’ and began to tend to the next thing on his list of activities.

Yutaka wiped at his face with his free hand and started back toward the hallway. He tried to keep his mind blank, forcing his breathing in and out steadily.

He went straight to their corner when he got back to the waiting room, setting the cup holder down on one of the short end tables, grabbed his water and turned to give Kouyou his coffee.

He was surprised to find Kouyou was not the one sitting next to him.

Takanori had taken up the chair next to the table and was rubbing his thighs with his hands nervously.

“Where’s Kouyou?” Yutaka asked, catching the vocalist’s attention.

Takanori pointed to the chair on the opposite side of the aisle and he turned to see that both Yuu and Kouyou were sitting there. He could have sworn the blonde guitarist had been sitting in the chair Takanori now occupied when he’d left. How had he not noticed the switch when he’d walked past them?

He blamed his lack of attention on his distracted mind and the fact that Takanori hadn’t even been there when he’d gone to the café. He walked over to Kouyou and held out the steaming cup.

The guitarist didn’t say anything, but the look of gratitude he shot over the rim was enough to coax a real small smile from him. More than convinced that Yuu would take care of Kouyou, he made his way back to his seat next to Takanori.

“So, when’d you get here?”

“A few minutes ago. Why?”

The vocalist’s voice was harsher than normal. Yutaka looked over the younger man. His eyes were focused on the floor, piercing still even though they were their natural dark brown. His lips made a thin line across his face, and his skin looked as if it had paled more overnight.

“No reason, just curious. Why did it take so long?” The drummer tried to keep his voice level. He didn’t want Takanori to think he was accusing him of something.

Either he had lost control of his inflection, or the vocalist was in a worse mood than he’d originally thought.

“I was in the shower when Yuu called me, okay? I got here as fast as I could.”

The drummer focused harder on not sounding defensive. “Oh.”

Takanori scoffed, “Is that a good enough excuse?”

“Taka you don’t have to get defensive, I was just asking. I know you care about him as much as I do.”

The vocalist grunted in response, folding his arms in from of him. His eyes didn’t leave the spot they had picked out on the floor.

“Don’t act like you have more right to be here.”

Yutaka’s eyes narrowed slightly, his words firm, “No one has more right than anyone else that’s here.”

“I do.” Takanori mumbled under his breath.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

The vocalist looked up from the floor and into Yutaka’s eyes. His face was a mixture of worry and anger. “You wouldn’t even know him if it weren’t for me.”

The comment caught him off guard. He’d known Takanori was just as frustrated as everyone else, but he hadn’t expected the vocalist to say something so low, so obviously hurtful, as that. It was true, he wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for the other man, he’d probably still be working odd hours at a diner and playing fill-in for any band he could find that needed a drummer.

But the younger man had never held that over his head before, had never waved the fact in front of his face so tauntingly.

He scoffed, his eyes narrowing. He hadn’t wanted to fight with Takanori, but he wasn’t going to stand for being mocked. “Maybe you wouldn’t be so pissy if—”

“Will you two shut the fuck up?!”

His mouth snapped shut and his head flipped around to see that Kouyou had stood up from his seat. The guitarist’s body was visibly tense, and anger had overshadowed the tired worry that had been coloring his features for the last hour.

“I know you two have shit to take care of, but right now, I don’t want to fucking hear it. In case you hadn’t noticed over your own moronic anger, my best friend got in a fucking car accident this morning and no one has come out to tell us whether not he’s even fucking alive!”

Yutaka had never seen Kouyou cry before. While the guitarist wasn’t necessarily bawling, he could see the collection of tears along the other man’s lids. That realization, the words and the tears and the emotion, hit him stronger than anything had before now. He tried to meet Kouyou’s eyes, to express to him somehow that he was sorry, but the other man was glaring pointedly at Takanori.

The vocalist didn’t say anything. His eyes returned to the floor.

Yutaka saw Kouyou rub the sides of his head with a calloused hand and start to pace again. The drummer pushed another fit of emotion away, one broken band member was enough for the small ER waiting room.

More time passed, but how much the drummer wasn’t certain. Yuu had gone outside to smoke a cigarette. Yutaka was impressed by how long he held out, and how apprehensive he looked when the stress finally overwhelmed him. Yutaka promised the older man that he would call him if anything happened.

Takanori didn’t move. His eyes never left the carpet. The drummer wondered what the vocalist was thinking about, and how much of it involved self-loathing. Takanori was good at those sorts of things.

Yutaka sighed, unable to place his own thoughts.

It wasn’t long after Yuu had come back that a short, aged doctor came out into the waiting room.

“Takashima-san?”

Kouyou flipped on his heel and hurried over to the doctor. Yutaka stood and followed behind Yuu. When he glanced back, he noticed Takanori was right behind him.

“Is he going to be okay?” Kouyou was saying when Yutaka got within earshot.

The doctor nodded. “He hit his head on the steering wheel, so he’s suffered quite the concussion. We had to stitch up a pretty deep cut on his arm, and he may have fractured one of the bones in his leg. Other than that, he’ll be fine. But we’re going to keep him overnight for observation.”

Yutaka felt the weight on his chest lighten considerably, his shoulder’s slumped and he sighed heavily in relief. Looking around him, it was clear he was not the only one experiencing the sudden ease.

“Can we see him?” Kouyou asked, refusing to let the doctor turn and go back to his work before he had all his answers. The guitarist was a good man to have around when he felt something was worth his effort. He was quick but forceful.

The doctor’s brow furrowed for a moment, like he wanted to deny them access to the rooms, but in the end he nodded again. “But one at a time. And no one stays later than twenty minutes.”

He quickly disappeared behind the official-looking door separating the waiting room and the patients. It didn’t take long for a nurse to ask them which would like to go first. The band had already silently confirmed that Kouyou shouldn’t be made to wait any longer.

Yutaka and Takanori returned to their corner while Yuu took another trip outside for a second cigarette.

The vocalist sat down next to Yutaka and spoke quietly, “Sorry for earlier. I’m not really sure why I said that.”

Their eyes met and the drummer smiled. “It’s okay, we’re all tired and worried, different people handle situations like this differently. I know you don’t really mean that.”

Takanori sighed, “How can you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Separate your own personal feelings enough to understand where someone else is coming from. Even in a situation like this.”

Yutaka shrugged, he had never thought much about it. It’s just something he had always been able to do.

The two of them sat quietly for a moment, before Takanori abruptly spoke again. “I’ll be okay. Just don’t hate me while I let this all sink in.”

His words were casual, almost juvenile, like the situation at hand was less important than Yutaka knew it was. The drummer shook his head. “I’ll never understand you Matsumoto Takanori.”

The vocalist chuckled. “Most don’t, and few ever will.”


	14. Washed Away Faults

Slowly, the room around him came into focus. Akira rolled his head to either side, taking in the white-washed walls and a scent he wasn’t quite sure how to describe. It was sharp, pungent, but not necessarily piercing. His brow furrowed in confusion as a small nagging pain developed near the back of his head.

Faintly, the sounds of an inquiring, friendly female voice sounded beside him. It took the bassist a few moments to make out the words entirely. She was asking him how he felt or something along those lines.

“Where am I?” he finally managed to choke out.

The nurse looked taken aback by the question. Like it wasn’t perfectly logical, the bassist thought to himself, the last thing he remembered doing was leaving Takanori’s apartment, and he was pretty sure that that was not where he was now.

“You were in an accident.” She explained softly, her face pulling into a frown so deep he was afraid her eyebrows might actually start growing together in the middle of her forehead.

It took him a moment to process her words. He had to look away from her, to the room around him. A large window was allowing the room to be filled with light, and there was a table, a sink, a chair. Then his eyes fell to the many, unrecognizable machines placed around the room. One looked vaguely like a heart monitor.

A heart monitor? That must mean…

The memories came flooding back to him, It was almost as if he was recalling them from a movie or a book, the way they flitted to and from his mind. He remembered being in his car, leaving Takanori’s apartment and heading over to Kouyou’s to apologize. He’d dropped his lighter in the center consul, looked away from the road for a moment to locate it. When he had finally returned his gaze to traffic it was too late.

The front end of his car had slammed into something in front of him, causing his head to smack against the steering wheel. He remembered sitting in the car for a while, not really aware of what had happened or what he was doing.

He remembered the faint sounds of those he assumed now had been paramedics. Thinking back on it, it had almost seemed that they had been speaking a different language. He couldn’t recall what they had said to him, or what he’d managed to say back. Everything seemed too hazy. Somehow, they‘d gotten him out of his car and he had been taken to an ambulance.

His memories stopped there.

The nurse was talking again, though he wasn’t sure what she was saying. He grunted in response, not wanting to ask her to repeat herself. She nodded and hit the small red call button to his left. She said something about a doctor.

The pain in his head started to intensify; growing more painful the longer he remained conscious. He tried to blink it away, but the spots that appeared across his vision did nothing for his pain. When he lifted his hand to press it against his face, he realized the limb felt strangely heavy.

He looked down to see where they’d placed an intravenous line into the top of his hand. A few inches above that, his arm had been wrapped in some kind of white, gauzy bandage. He tried to bend his wrist, but found the action to require too much energy.

He was so tired.

And the nurse was talking again. Did these people never shut up?

“—Suzuki-san?”

“Hmm?” He managed to say. His throat felt scratchy from sleep.

“I asked if you wanted to try to drink some water.” She repeated patiently.

He attempted a nod, but regretted that decision almost instantly. His vision swam and he forced his eyes shut until the dizziness wore off.

“Yeah,” he said. When he opened his eyes again, he found that a small cup was held in front of him. His lips felt dry around the straw, but he sucked the cool liquid into his mouth with as much fervor as he could manage at the moment.

He could only take a few sips before his throat itched and he started coughing. The nurse pulled the cup away and set it down on the table next to the bed.

“You’re probably really tired, but I need you to try and stay awake until the doctor comes in. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes,” she said and he was proud to find that he had followed her words fairly well. He looked up at her again, noticing this time that she wasn’t as old as he’d first thought. She was probably only a few years older than him, but hours working in the hospital made her appear rough, tired. Still, her smile was comforting and she patted his hand with her own soft fingers. She reminded him a little bit of his older sister.

“My name is Miyoko,” she continued, moving away from the bed to place his thick medical chart into the holder beside the door. “If you need anything, just call the nurse’s station and I’ll come back.”

With one last smile over her shoulder, she disappeared through the door to return to her work and he was alone in the room. He regarded the rest of the room again, letting his eyes follow his IV line up to the machine he was hooked up to.

He tried to remember the crash again, but nothing more than snippets of disconnected memories would come to him.

It didn’t feel like he’d been in the room for very long. Though, he assumed the reason he couldn’t remember anything after being loaded into the ambulance was because he’d passed out on the way to the hospital, so his perception of time was probably off. He thought he must still be in the ER, because the room lacked the required homey feeling of a room intended for extended stays. His bed wasn’t comfortable by any stretch of the imagination, but he didn’t mind much. The thought of trying to stand, or even sit, was nauseating. He’d take the too-firm mattress with thin white sheets, because the alternative was out of the question.

He was pulled from his thoughts when the door opened again. If his limbs didn’t feel as if they were made of lead, he probably would have jumped. His hearts sped up at the sound just the same.

“Suzuki Akira?” the doctor looked over his thick-rimmed glasses and flipped though a clipboard under his arm. He waited for a moment. It wasn’t until after he spoke again that Akira realized he was waiting for a response. “How are you feeling?”

He had, until then, forgotten about his head. He thought to himself how crazy the human mind was, that if could suppress things, like pain, until otherwise suggested. It wasn’t but thirty seconds after the doctor uttered the question that the back of his head felt like it would split open again.

The blonde winced, “Actually, now that you mention it, my head really hurts.” Another wave of pain washed over him, paired with a slight feeling of nausea.

He could kill that doctor.

“That appears to be right. You’re suffering from a mild concussion, due to the impact against your steering wheel. It’s nothing to be too concerned about, but we will have to keep you overnight, just to monitor you status.” He smiled and said something to the nurse. Something about medication.

Akira revoked his previous thought about killing the doctor, the guy was just doing his job, and the sooner he got on some sort of pain suppressant the better.

He leaned his head deeper into the squishy pillow. He wished that he were in his own bed, in his apartment, where he could watch marathons of Tokyo Love Story with a giant cup of convenient store yakisoba and three packs of strawberry pockey.

Maybe four.

The nurse wrote something on the chart at the end of his bed and informed him that she would be right back. Akira grunted in acknowledgement and turned his head toward the window.

He couldn’t see much of what was outside from his angle, but he could tell that he had been placed on the first floor. Scattered drops of moisture hit the glass pain with slight tapping sounds. He wondered how long it had been raining.

Images of Yutaka and Kouyou entered his mind. The last experience he had with the two hadn’t necessarily been pleasant, or what he wanted them to be. It hadn’t been his intention to make the two angry with him. He wondered if Yutaka knew he’d talked to Takanori. He wanted nothing more than to tell him that. He would even exchange a moment to speak to the drummer for the pain medication he knew the nurse was going to fetch.

He knew that Kouyou would forgive him. He knew that his relationship with Takanori, be it different, would improve as time passed. What he didn’t know, what he wasn’t sure of, was Yutaka. He had no idea if the other man would want anything to do with him. If the drummer was still in love with him.

He felt the familiar hum in his chest. It traveled up to his sinus and he knew before the tears started to well in his eyes that he was going to cry. The blonde didn’t even try to surpass the emotion. He deserved it. He had screwed everything up.

“I’m so stupid,” he murmured to himself.

He heard the door to the room open again. He quickly wiped the rivets of moisture off his cheeks, hoping that the nurse wouldn’t notice. She told him that she was going to give him the medicine through his IV, and that the pain should be dulled soon enough. It was cold where it entered his hand, the sensation traveling up to his elbow. She wasn’t even finished administering the medicine before he started to feel the effects. His head felt heavy suddenly, and while the pain didn’t necessarily go away, it was no longer difficult to ignore it. Before leaving, the nurse informed him of the small red button to his left, and that should he need anything not to hesitate to push it.

Akira nodded and smiled. He was grateful that he would finally be left alone for a while, and that the medicine was already working on his aching head. He closed his eyes and tried to think of something that would take his mind off unpleasant things.

He thought of that first night he was with Yutaka. How he’d felt like he was at home the second the drummer’s hand had touched him, he’d felt safe. Akira wiped away a few more tears and eventually allowed himself to sleep.


	15. You Remain on the Rough Tip of my Tongue

The sun always seemed brighter after he had spent a considerable length of time indoors. When he followed the nurse out the sliding doors of the hospital’s front entrance, he squinted against the light. The pain in his head flaring to life again momentarily before subsiding back to the dull ache it had been for the better part of the last day and a half. He walked slowly, limping on his right side because of a fracture in his ankle. The joint was bandaged and he’d been given a crutch to ease his journey down to the main lobby. His arm was in a sling, held close to his chest.

He figured he probably looked worse than he felt.

“Someone has already arranged to come pick you up,” the nurse said, leading him outside and over to one of the benches where he could wait for his ride. Another few people sat and nurses in the same sea-green scrubs stood holding various bags and other items. It made Akira feel helpless.

The circular driveway made him miss his car.

He didn’t bother sitting down. Having to stand up again would only mean more unnecessary pain. He was still a little lightheaded—though he blamed most of that on the pain medicine they’d practically force-fed him a couple hours ago—and his arm hurt if he thought about it long enough, but the pain in his ankle seemed to be the worst at the moment and he didn’t want to aggravate it any further.

He wondered who had agreed to come fetch him. He hoped it was Kouyou, or maybe even Takanori. He and the vocalist had had a short conversation the night before and while the hurt wasn’t completely gone between them, it seemed some of the tension had lifted. The vocalist was horrible at keeping grudges; he was too logical a thinker for them.

When a black Toyota pulled around, he didn’t really think much of it, until it stopped right in front of his bench and he was forced to look at it closer.

When Yutaka stepped out of the driver’s seat and up onto the curb, Akira felt his heart jump up to his throat. He stared, perfectly aware how dumb he must look with his eyes wide and his mouth slightly ajar, but uncaring.

Yutaka’s eyes locked with his own and he felt the world around him start to slide out of focus. For a moment, Yutaka was all that existed.

“Hey,” the drummer said, voice soft and a little flat. It jarred Akira back to reality anyway.

“Hi.” He shook his head to clear it, but only served in making himself dizzy. He would have to sit down soon.

“Here are his things.” The nurse that had come down with him handed large clear bag to Yutaka, who took it with a smile and a nod. The brunette thanked the nurse and peered into the bag at Akira’s clothes, bloodied from the accident and probably irreparable. His shoes where down at the bottom. He was glad that he was going to be able to keep at least those.

He was pulled out of his thoughts when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked over to find the nurse standing beside him. She wasn’t as pretty as the one who had taken care of him before, but she had nice eyes.

“You take care of yourself now,” she said. He nodded and watched her walk back into the hospital.

When he turned back around, Yutaka was opening the passenger door and placing his bag onto the floor of the car. He hobbled over and waited for Yutaka to step away from the door so he could slide in. He handed Yutaka the crutch, which the drummer placed carefully in the backseat before moving back around to the driver’s side.

He didn’t speak as Yutaka started the car, as they pulled away from the hospital. He didn’t know what to say, that hadn’t spoken since that night at the studio and he’d hardly had the nerve to ask anyone how the drummer was doing. Guilt still stung at his insides, sharp and nauseating. It wasn’t as bad as before, but he had a distinct feeling that had more to do with the Vicodin than any real healing.

Yutaka spoke, voice steady. The sound made Akira feel both uprooted and grounded.

“Taka told me to tell you to call him when you get your phone back.

“Oh,” he responded, laying his head back against the headrest and looking out the window. “Okay.”

“He said you guys had a nice little talk last night.” Yutaka stopped at a red light. The car rocked forward with leftover momentum, making Akira’s head spin. Without turning to the drummer, he felt Yutaka’s eyes on him for a moment. “I hope things are okay between you.”

He chewed on the inside of his cheek. He didn’t want to have this conversation now, but he was just too tired to lie anymore. To anyone.

“Taka knows.”

“I know he knows.”

His head flipped around. He ignored the pain the action caused and stared with wide eyes at the other man. The car continued onward.

“He told you?”

“He didn’t have to.”

Akira sank further into his seat and resisted the urge to cross his arms over his chest. He felt small and exposed and he wanted to be home already. He was reminded suddenly of a conversation he’d had a few days ago, but not one he’d had with Yutaka.

He was amazed how similar the drummer could be to Takanori sometimes.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself. “When did you find out?”

Yutaka’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t take them away from the road. They slowed behind backed-up traffic. “Last night. When we were sitting in the waiting room.”

The words surprised him. “You were there last night?”

Yutaka’s brow furrowed and he looked over at Akira for a second before turning back to the road. “Of course I was there, Akira.”

Akira felt stupid for asking, stupid and indignant. “Then why didn’t you come back to talk to me?” They could have probably skipped all this awkward tiptoeing if Yutaka had come to his room the night before. And he would have been on a lot more painkillers.

Yutaka sighed, seemed tired suddenly. “Because what I have to say to you is something I don’t think can be explained in twenty minutes.”

He turned to look out the window again. The sun was still bright, still hurt his eyes a little. He felt trapped inside Yutaka’s car, surrounded by Yutaka’s things, breathing in Yutaka’s scent.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked, trying to change the subject though he knew the attempt was futile.

It took a moment for Yutaka to answer. “Home.”

He nodded. He figured that’s where he was going, but the more he bombarded Yutaka with small talk the easier it was to talk the other man in circles.

The problem with that was small talk didn’t work so well as a distraction when there was heavy awkward tension between them.

“How—”

“Why?”

He paused, his mouth snapping closed but he didn’t look at the drummer. “Why what?”

“You know what.”

He did know. The question was purposely left vague, because the answer could not be simple, probably wasn’t even concise.

He watched the buildings pass by in a blur of gray concrete and neon light, watched the people in their colorful shirts. Everything seemed so vibrant. Everything seemed so far away. He didn’t know how to answer Yutaka’s question. He’d been asking himself the same thing for a long time.

He tried several times to think of the words to say. His mouth would open and then close again. After a few minutes Akira gave up trying and leaned his head against the cool window.

Yutaka sighed heavily and they turned down a familiar street. “I’m sorry,” the drummer said, “that wasn’t really fair.” Akira could see him looking over from the road. There was another moment of silence and another sigh. Akira knew the other man was frustrated, but found himself unable to really care. “I can’t do this if you’re not going to talk to me.”

“I miss my car.”

Yutaka scoffed and Akira could see the in the windshield the reflection of the man shaking his head to himself. “Are you even listening to me?” The words were sharp, defensive. The blonde felt like he was sinking into the very fabric of his seat.

He pushed back the urge to cry. Akira knew he had no right to be angry, but he didn’t understand. Hadn’t the drummer yelled at him enough? “Yes. I hear you. You told me to talk to you. I’m talking to you. I can’t answer your questions. I don’t know what you want to hear.”

“I didn’t ask you to tell me what I want to hear.” Akira could tell that Yutaka had lost some of the control in his voice. “I want you to say what you mean.”

“Fine,” Akira shifted so he was facing the other man again. He pressed the tip of his tongue to the inside of his cheek for a second. “What are you thinking?”

The words seemed to have caught the drummer off guard. There was a short, stagnant silence between the two of them. Akira found himself wishing he hadn’t asked.

But Yutaka sighed again, and this time it sounded resigned instead of angry. He watched the different emotions play on the drummer’s face, feelings told through furrowed brows and lips pressed tightly together, white knuckles and the refusal to look at him.

“I can’t be with you if you’re going to sleep with other people. I can’t be with you if our conversations aren’t taken seriously.” Yutaka took a deep breath. “I can’t be with you if you’re going to lie to me.”

“I get it, okay?” He wasn’t trying to sound defensive, but he didn’t seem to have control over his own voice. “I get it. I fucked up.”

“These are things you have to hear if we expect to have a relationship.”

“What?”

Yutaka looked sideways at him for a second but didn’t respond verbally. Akira felt his heart beat painfully against his chest.

“You just said you couldn’t be with me.”

Yutaka nodded. “If nothing changes, I can’t.”

“But… so… does that mean you’re not breaking up with me?"

Yutaka seemed genuinely surprised by the words. “No. Akira, why would I go though all the trouble of explaining myself to you if I was going to break up with you?”

“I just figured…” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Yutaka was silent for a long time then and he went back to looking out the window. When the drummer spoke again, it was softer than before, less irritated.

“You mean more to me than that. This… isn’t something we can’t get over. It isn’t something we can’t work out.”

Akira nodded.

He could feel the car rolling to a stop. He sighed and went to open the door when he realized that what he saw outside the window wasn’t what he’d expected. He looked at Yutaka. “I… I thought you said you were taking me home?”

The reply came in the form of black eyes meeting his for the first time in what seemed like forever and a small, knowing smile. The drummer got out of the car and came around, grabbing Akira’s crutch out of the backseat before opening Akira’s door. The bassist traded his bag for the crutch and winced as he maneuvered himself out of the car. His ankle was aching a little worse now. He would have to ask Yutaka to go get his prescriptions filled before the pharmacies closed.

He closed his eyes and tried to stay steady on his feet when he was finally standing. He leaned heavily against the side of the car and breathed slow, measured breaths. A hand closed around his arm, strong and reassuring.

“You alright?” Yutaka asked, shutting the car door behind him.

He swallowed and nodded. “I’m still a little dizzy is all.”

He opened his eyes again, watched the ground for a moment to make sure it wasn’t still moving under his feet. Yutaka lifted a hand to cup his jaw, coaxing his chin back up. “Hey, look at me.”

He let his eyes settle on Yutaka’s again, tried to use them as a focal point to help ground himself. Yutaka’s thumb gently rubbed his cheek, where he knew a pretty purple bruise had formed from when he’d smacked his face into the steering wheel.

“Don’t scare me like that again,” Yutaka whispered, but to himself or to Akira, the bassist didn’t know. He still felt close to tears and he wanted to promise Yutaka everything the drummer could ever want of him, but he found he was unable to speak. Yutaka swallowed heavily and leaned forward until his lips brushed Akira’s cheek. “I don’t think I could stomach it.”

Yutaka pressed his lips softly to the corner of Akira’s mouth and then pulled away.

It wasn’t a promise of forever. It wasn’t an “I love you”. But it was a start. It was something. And for the first time in a long while, when Akira breathed in, it felt like his lungs were filling with oxygen.

He exhaled and followed Yutaka up to the entrance to the drummer’s apartment building.


	16. It Cannot Be Called Happiness

It had been three weeks since he had seen anything other than the interior walls of his apartment and the things that fit inside them. Save for a few trips to the market for food, Yutaka had kept to himself mostly, holed up in his home. But after so long, he’d started to get restless and it felt good to breathe air that didn’t smell like cigarette smoke and the homemade soup he had still sitting in a pot on his stove.

He walked into the studio, unsurprised to find none of the others had made it there yet. Yutaka knew for a fact that it would take Akira at least fifteen minutes to notice his absence from their bed, another thirty for Akira to will himself out of the half-comatose sleep, which would give the blonde just enough time to grab a dirty t-shit off the floor and make it to the subway station. There, Akira would realize he forgot his card, thus ruining all of his hard work to make it to the studio on time.

Yutaka shook his head in amusement. He had been spending a little too much time with the other man recently.

The drummer sighed and allowed his body to fall back on to the familiar off-green sofa. The semi-soft cushions were comforting, if anything because they had been with the band for so long. Yutaka remembered the stories Kouyou had told about the sofa when it had still been his grandmother’s. He laughed, thinking it was silly how something like a disgusting-green sofa could make him miss the other guys, miss practice.

He supposed it had something to do with all the long nights they had spent taking turns sleeping on it, with the sound of voices and laughter in the background, talk of new melodies, slow, tentative notes picked out on the guitars.

Yutaka’s smile faded, his thoughts turning more downcast. His mind was overwhelmed with thoughts of the band never being the same, of a strange awkwardness settling between them, forcing them apart. He didn’t want to think that he would be partly responsible for that. That fear had forced him into finally calling the others up last night, demanding they all get back to practice.

“It’s crazy how fast things go back to normal.”

Yutaka felt his heart jump in his chest. He sat up, wild-eyed and more alert than he’d felt in a long while.

“Fucking hell, Taka! Are you trying to put me in the hospital?”

The vocalist laughed, flipping the small light switch next to the door. The room was filled with a pale, iridescent light. Takanori pushed away from the doorframe and Yutaka had half a mind to ask him how long he’d been standing there. The younger man took a seat where Yutaka’s head had just been on the sofa, propping his legs up on the table in front of him.

“You should try not being so tense. It would be good for you.” The vocalist’s voice was soft but cheerful. It was nice to hear it.

Yutaka chose not to respond, too preoccupied with the first thing Takanori had said. He hadn’t really thought about things going back to normal, but he supposed those words were true. It seemed like it had only been a few days since he’d brought the bassist home from the hospital. The drummer realized that this was the first time, aside from a few phone calls, that he would be speaking to his bandmates in three weeks. The thought made him feel bad suddenly.

He sighed and laid his head against the back of the couch, rolling his head to the side so he could see the vocalist. “So, how are you?”

Takanori grunted in response. “I’ve been better.”

The air between them was thick with obvious tension. Yutaka did his best to push it away, but knew that he would have to talk to the vocalist eventually.

He jumped up a little too quickly, startling Takanori and jostling the cushions underneath them. He reached over to grab the notebook sticking half-way out his bag on the floor. He flipped to the right page and settled back against the couch.

“I brought something for you to look at.” He let his eyes fall on the composition he’d been working on the night before. He had the basic melody written in his mind already, but he was hoping to have Takanori look at it for some tweaking.

Takanori looked over the drummer’s notes, laughing under his breath. “You’ve changed it a lot since we last talked about it.” He pointed a line written in Yutaka’s slanted scrawl. “I didn’t think you would listen to me there.”

Yutaka smiled. He thought back to the last time he and the vocalist had talked about this song. It made him want to apologize; wish that things were more normal between them.

“I’m sorry.”

Through his jumble of thoughts, it took him a moment to realize the words hadn’t come from his own mouth. He looked over at Takanori in surprise, but found the vocalist was staring at some spot on the wall opposite them. When he spoke, his voice was hushed.

“I don’t think you have anything to apologize for.” He didn’t blame Takanori for the tension between them, but then…

He supposed he couldn’t blame himself either.

He wondered how many of his own thoughts mimicked those of the man next to him.

“I guess ‘sorry’ wasn’t really the word I was looking for.” The vocalist paused; one of his pale hands massaged his temples. Yutaka figured that, being a writer, it must have been difficult for the man to not be able to find a word. “I guess… I guess what I mean is that I don’t blame you. For any of this.”

Takanori met his eyes. Yutaka could see sincerity in them.

Suddenly, it was a little easier to breathe.

Takanori went back to staring at the wall and sighed heavily. “I knew what I was risking with Akira, more than you do even now. I never meant to take out any of my frustrations on you. I… I miss talking to you.”

Yutaka smiled. Sometimes he was amazed at how Takanori could pull words together that Yutaka had been trying to work out for days. Even if they were simplistic, matter-of-fact.

“I don’t blame you either, you know?”

Takanoris’s smile was subdued, but Yutaka took it as a good sign. He shifted so he could pull in legs up onto the cushion.

Takanori crossed his arms over his chest, and chewed on his lip. “I was afraid you would quit.”

The vocalist’s words caught him off guard.

“What?”

Takanori made a vague motion with his hand. “After everything that happened, the thing with Aki, what I said in the hospital. After I had time to think about it later that night, I was really afraid you were going to want to leave the band. And then we all sort of disappeared into our corners of the city, and I’m just so used to people calling and nagging me, but no one did. And I thought, “this is it, we’re done."

“Wow, I never thought the absence of my nagging would effect anyone negatively.”

Takanori laughed quietly, but still didn't look up at him. Yutaka smacked at the vocalist’s arm lightly. “Your going to have to do a lot more than that to get rid of me, you know? I’ve put too much in this band to throw it all away like that.”

Taka hummed in response, but seemed genuinely content. Yutaka swallowed thickly before speaking again. “Hey, what did you mean by knowing the risks with Akira?”

The vocalist sighed. “I was sort of hoping you wouldn’t catch that.” He bit at his bottom lip, taking a while to respond. “All I meant was that Akira used to be sort of known for that kind of stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“There really isn’t any round-a-bout way to say this,” Taka warned, but it wasn’t unusual for him to apologize for putting things bluntly. “Aki… he messed around with a lot of guys back before we got really serious. Some kind of skewed coming-of-age, search for approval thing he went through. I know he looks innocent, but don’t let him fool you.”

Yutaka wasn’t really sure how he was supposed to respond to something like that.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to throw something like that at you our first day back.” Takanori ruffled the hair at the back of his neck. “I just... I want to believe that he feels different about you. Like, maybe he really feels something for you. But at the same time, I feel that you should know his past.”

He nodded as another silence fell over them. Of course it hadn’t been the first time Akira had been deceitful, the bassist played the entire thing off too well for it to be. Yutaka had been able to figure that much out on his own.

The drummer closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. He didn’t want to think about what the vocalist could tell him, about Akira’s past. He had just spent the better half of three weeks forgiving Akira, mending what their fragile relationship back to something recognizable, comfortable.

He was happy with the bassist.

Takanori’s voice broke the silence again. “You know what, it doesn’t really matter. He’s not the same person he was then… I—”

“Taka, you don’t have to apologize. It’s alright.”

Yutaka reached for the notebook that Takanori was still holding. He flipped back a few pages and scooted closer to the vocalist so they could both see. “I wanted to know what you thought about this part being, like, a second bridge.”

Takanori looked a little awestruck for a moment, but eventually answered. “A second? Yutaka, this song is already gonna be, like, five minutes long. “

He shrugged. “A few more won’t hurt.”

Takanori rolled his eyes and reached into his pocket. What he pulled out was small and white and looked remarkably like folded paper. It was crisp and new, not like what Yutaka was used to seeing. Takanori inhaled deeply and offered the paper to the drummer.

Yutaka looked at him for a moment before his mouth curved into a surprised smile. “Did you really finish it?”

Takanori rolled his eyes again. “Just look at it.”

Yutaka fumbled with the paper, quickly unfolding it in front of him. It was strange to think that the vocalist had been working on this song for so long and now it was finally finished. He smiled as he started to read.

It was clear that Takanori had put a lot of himself in the words. Not that that wasn’t obvious any other time, but Yutaka could tell that the man had been particularly precise with the lyrics. He read them and reread them. He found himself appreciating the contrast of the black words against the paper, the way in which they stood out form the background. He waited a moment after he finished before he gave Takanori back the paper.

“I’m so glad you’re our lyricist.”

Takanori seemed to fight with himself for a moment before giving in to the urge to smile. Yutaka knew the vocalist had a hard time taking compliments. It was something that he would probably never get used to, and something he would never be able to escape.

“Have you thought of a title?”

Takanori didn’t answer right away. Standing from the couch, he moved to other side of the practice room, looking over the various sound equipment that the band members had stored there. To Yutaka, the man looked deep in thought. The drummer figured that he was debating on whether or not he wanted to answer.

“Reila.”

Yutaka looked up, his eyebrows raised. “Reila?”

Takanori turned and smiled. “It’s sort of my fancy way to bring closure.”

The drummer tried to hide the look of bewilderment on his face; he knew that he was failing. He blinked a few times, glancing at the floor. They had been talking about that song for several weeks, he’d read the lyrics as the other man was in the process of writing them, and the entire time he’d failed to see that the song was about Akira. About losing Akira.

“Hey.”

Yutaka felt a hand on his shoulder. It was warm and familiar. He hadn’t noticed that Takanori had sat down next to him again. “I’m alright.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

The drummer looked at the man in front of him. He found himself a little envious of Takanori. The vocalist’s ability to cope and understand the things that were happening around him was an attribute that Yutaka could only dream about acquiring. Takanori was truly one of the best people the drummer had ever known.

He opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by the practice room door sliding open. He looked at the entrance as Yuu and Kouyou filed in, both silent and still a little rumpled from sleep. The two gave a small greeting and heaved their instruments into their normal places.

The distraction made the drummer lose what he’d wanted to say.

Yuu joined them again and nodded towards the paper in Yutaka’s hands, raising an eyebrow. “Those our new lyrics?”

The vocalist nodded.

Kouyou yawned and sat on one of the larger amplifiers. “Sweet, maybe they will go with this new melody I’ve been working on.”

The four talked for a few minutes, about what they did over the three weeks and what they had tentatively planned for the first practice in a month. It appeared that Yutaka hadn’t the only one spending most of his time on a couch in front of his television over the break.

Yutaka took a deep breath, unable to keep himself from smiling. Despite a small amount of apprehension in the air, he could tell that things weren’t going to change as much as he feared.

The door slid open again and the room fell into silence immediately.

Akira stepped into the practice room wiping sweat from his forehead and sounding a little out of breath. He obviously hadn’t caught on to the sudden change in atmosphere.

Yutaka looked at him in disbelief. “Did you run here?”

“I had to,” the bassist said, “I forgot my card and I didn’t want to be too late.”

Yutaka could hear Kouyou laugh from behind them. He turned in time to see the guitarist dig into his pocket and hold something in the air between his fingers. “You mean this card? The one you left at my house?”

Yutaka couldn’t help but laugh and it didn’t take long for the others to follow his lead. Even Akira conceded that it was a bit funny and chuckled embarrassedly. It seemed silly that a room of grown adults would be laughing at something like a lost train card, but Yutaka knew that it was more than that.

Akira was being Akira.

Gazette was back.


	17. We'll Make Tonight Echo

His apartment was warm and bright when he walked in. The window blinds had been opened, allowing the sun’s natural light to fill most of the area. It was a nice change from the usual dim, artificial light he had grown accustomed to, and it made him feel a little bit more human.

At first, he'd been nervous to have Akira around all the time, but he was starting to realize now that it wasn’t such a bad idea. He smiled and tossed his keys onto the table by the door and continued on into the living room.

The bassist was sitting on the couch, looking up at the ceiling with a blank look on his face. Yutaka was actually a little surprised to see Akira in here, as he'd been cleared by his doctors to leave the apartment a few days ago. The drummer had thought that after a week of strict rest, Akira would be dying to get some air.

“What are you doing?”

His words seemed to catch the older man off guard. Akira jumped and flipped his head around. When he saw Yutaka leaning against the wall at the opposite end of the room, he settled back down to his previous position. “I was just looking at all the shapes in your ceiling.”

“What?”

Akira pointed upward, making circles in the air with his finger. “The texture in the paint. It makes different shapes if you look at it long enough. Kind of like clouds.”

Yutaka nodded, laughing softly. Only Akira would think up something like that, he thought to himself. Takanori would really have to put up a fight against the bassist in a battle for creativity if Akira had the attention span for something like writing.

The drummer walked over to the couch, tapped Akira’s legs to get the bassist to lift them before settling down beside the other man. Akira was still staring at the ceiling, mouth hanging open. Yutaka shook his head and wondered to himself why he loved the bassist so much.

He supposed that’s what love was, though. Unexplainable and unexpected.

It took a few moments for Akira to get fed up with being watched. He sat up and his brow furrowed. “Why are you staring at me?”

Yutaka shook his head. “No reason. Just trying to figure out how someone can be so fucking gorgeous all the time.”

Akira blinked several times. Pink tinged his cheeks and his mouth worked a few times wordless before he said, “Wow, really? That was lame, even for you.”

“Hey, I’m serious.” He leaned closer to Akira, stopping just short of the other's mouth. "You're fucking beautiful."

The bassist narrowed his eyes incredulously. “And you’re in an awfully good mood." He sat up a little more until his nose all but brushed Yutaka's cheek. "I assume the meeting with Koga went well.”

Yutaka knew Akira wasn't meaning to sound teasing. A lot of the time Akira seemed incapable of recognizing his own tone of voice.

“You could say that." He said, his voice barely above a whisper. "He agreed to allow us an extra week to get the music for the new single together.”

“Awesome. Do the others know yet?”

Yutaka’s eyes wandered down Akira’s chest. Even in the loose fitting T-shirt he could see the outlines of man’s muscles. His words got caught in his throat, and it didn’t take long for him to forget completely what he was about to say.

Akira’s body could do that to him.

The two had locked eyes again before he pushed out a response. “Not yet.”

“You okay?”

The genuine concern in Akira's voice was enough to make Yutaka fall in love all over again. He couldn’t help but laugh a little at how innocent Akira could appear at times. “I’m fine. You’re just really distracting.”

“Distracting?”

Yutaka grunted in response, biting at the inside of his cheek. He ran a calloused hand up Akira’s thigh, grazing over patches of warm skin due to the holes the man had deliberately cut in the denim. The movement seemed to be enough for Akira to get what the drummer was hinting toward. He smirked.

“You want to fuck me so bad you can’t even talk, can you?”

His breathing quickened and his eyes closed. It used to frustrate him that the bassist could leave him completely and utterly defenseless, but anymore it was something that was even more attractive about the other man.

He took a few seconds to recuperate before he recoiled, smirking and pulling back to look Akira in the eye again. “Wouldn’t you like that?”

He set his hands on the arm of the couch, on either side of Akira's head, before pushing himself up, twisting around pushing a knee between Akira’s thighs. The bassist spread his legs to accommodate Yutaka’s hips fitting between them. Akira's eyes were wide, his chest working with his heavy breathing. He can feel the bassist's erection through his jeans.

He lowered himself more, positioning himself so that he was just hovering over Akira’s lips. He could feel the heat from the bassist's breath.

Yutaka forced their lips together. His heart raced at the sound of Akira’s deep moan. The bassist arched up into him, deepening the kiss. Yutaka traced the seam of the Akira's lips with his tongue, licking into the other man's mouth when Akira opened for him.

Three weeks was too long to go without kissing Akira.

The drummer felt a hand slide under his shirt, warm skin against warm skin. Akira scraped his nails lightly across Yutaka's side. The motion sent chills throughout Yutaka's body. Another hand, and the soft cotton was lifted over his head and tossed to the floor.

It was unlike Akira to be so forward. On any other day, Yutaka might have seen the actions as a challenge, something he would have to correct, but he found himself not minding so much today.

However, the behavior would have to stop eventually. He wasn’t that open to so much change.

He could feel Akira’s fingers dance across his belt. He put a silencing hand across the buckle. He broke their kiss and trailed his lips up the bassist's jaw to whisper in Akira's ear. “Don’t rush it.”

Akira whined, a long drawn out noise from the back of his throat. “It’s been too long. Why can’t I just have you?”

“Because," Yutaka laughed, "that would be too easy." He moved his hands to Akira's hips, letting his weight rest against the blonde's pelvis. “Besides, it's always better when it's drawn out.”

The bassist clenched his jaw and crossed his arms in front of him. Yutaka knew the act wouldn’t last long. He was right. It had been too long and he knew that that alone would be enough to force Akira to submit to him.

He traced a pattern on top of the fabric of the blonde’s shirt with his fingertips. “Don’t pout, it’s unattractive.”

Akira looked at him from one eye and uncrossed his arms. “Whatever.”

Yutaka bent down next to his lover’s ear, his lips brushing against them as he whispered, “Just be patient. I’ll make it worth it.”

Akira grabbed at Yutaka’s back. “How am I supposed to be patient when you do things like that?”

He chuckled and ran his tongue along the shell of Akira’s ear, loving the sharp intake of breath it elicited. “Patience.”

Akira’s laughter sounded more like a sob. “Great, you know more than—ah!"

Yutaka sucked hard at the bassist’s neck, if nothing more than to shut the man up. Akira had a nasty habit of talking too much and it could really kill the drummer’s mood. Akira hooked a leg over Yutaka’s hips, trying for more friction. Yutaka shivered and threaded one hand through blonde hair, tugging the bassist’s head back so he could kiss the other man again. God, he’d missed this.

His other hand reached behind him to wrap around one of Akira’s wrists, pulling the bassist’s arm back around and pressing the wrist into the arm of the couch. He was careful to apply just enough pressure that it would be difficult for Akira to lift it. The bassist wriggled under the sudden weight. Yutaka could tell that he was holding back a moan. He broke their kiss and let his mouth to trail down Akira’s neck, tonguing the hollow at the base of the other man’s throat.

He went as far as he could without breaking his hold on the man’s wrist. The bassist’s free hand scratched at his back helplessly. Yutaka could feel his own self-control slip as the bassist cock pressed firmly against this inside of his thigh.

“Yutaka… fuck! S-stop being a tease.”

There was an almost painful tone to Akira’s voice, one that made Yutaka all the more delighted to wait a while longer before giving his lover a taste of release.

Yutaka let go of Akira’s wrist and tugged at the collar of the soft fabric of the other’s t-shirt. Akira didn’t hesitate in pulling the clothing over his head. Yutaka stared for a moment at the sight in front of him.

His hands ran up the blonde’s chest. Slowly, he traced the shadows cast on the man’s skin. He lowered his mouth, gently kissing an excited nipple. The action caused an involuntary jerk in the bassist.

Yutaka sucked at the nipple again. He could feel the other man’s breath as it became shorter, choppier. Yutaka bit down softly, causing Akira to moan again, a deep, guttural sound. It was enough to urge the drummer further and his hand toyed gently with the buckle of Akira’s pants.

He suddenly needed to touch the other man, to get his hands in and around and under. The button and zipper came undone between his fingers and he wrapped a hand around Akira’s cock.

The blonde’s head fell back against the armrest he gasped, high-pitched and surprised. Yutaka pressed his face against Akira’s chest, breathing in the scent of sweat and soap and Akira.

He slid a calloused thumb over the sensitive tip of Akira’s cock.

Akira’s body jerked so violently that Yutaka’s grip was almost shaken free. He smirked. The reaction was everything the drummer had expected and more. He continued to gently massage at the tip, every time reveling in the response.

Yutaka mouthed at Akira’s collarbone, sucking hard, and when he lifted up again the skin was a pretty purple-pink. He positioned the tip of his thumb over the small opening at the end of Akira’s cock.

“Yutaka…” Akira gasped, a hand wrapping around the back of Yutaka’s neck for support.

Hearing his name like that was something Yutaka knew he would never get fully used to. Especially coming from Akira’s lips, the syllables broken and choppy.

A sharp pain in the back of Yutaka’s neck pulled the drummer out of his thoughts. It took him a few moments to realize Akira had dug his fingernails into the soft skin. Yutaka could only assume it was out of frustration.

The pain was not unwelcome.

Yutaka looked down at his lover. “I’m going to let go of your cock, but you’re not allowed to come yet. Is that clear?”

Akira nodded meekly. His eyes squeezed shut as Yutaka loosened his grip, trying to bring himself down. The drummer’s lips curved into a wicked smile. He lowered himself so that his lips were on top of the blonde’s protruding hipbones. He kissed one softly.

Yutaka tugged Akira’s jeans close to his knees, exposing the man’s flushed cock. He didn’t even look up at Akira’s face again before taking the head into his mouth.

“Fuck, Yutaka,” Akira said breathlessly, the hand wrapped around Yutaka’s neck tightening. The body under his trembled with the effort to stay still and he ran his thumb over the bassist’s hip in encouragement.

The drummer pushed father down on Akira’s cock until he felt the tip hit the back of his throat. Above him, the bassist panted and scratched at the cushions of the couch.

He rested there for a moment before pulling back. The tip of his tongue followed the length as it slid back into the cool air of his apartment. He did this a few more times, careful to keep the pace slow and deliberate. His tongue swirled around the tip and Yutaka expertly slipped it under the small flap of sensitive skin.

Akira jerked, moaning uncontrollably. Yutaka tightened a hand against one of the man’s thighs, a warning not to do anything until he was told.

The salty taste of pre-come filled his mouth and he couldn’t help but groan.

He pulled off completely, leaving Akira flushed redder than before, cock slick with his saliva. He gripped the base and smirked when Akira made a frustrated noise between clenched teeth. Trailing his other hand up the bassist’s side, he slid back up until he and Akira were face to face. The other man’s eyes were still clenched shut. He bit at Akira’s jaw.

“Still want it?” he whispered, voice enticing, sinister almost. Akira’s throat worked to swallow thickly, Adam’s apple jumping higher up in his neck. Yutaka wanted to bite that too, but resisted. “Answer me."

“Yes, fuck, yes.”

He smiled, lips curving against the bassist’s throat. Pulling away completely, he tugged at Akira’s jeans. “These, off.”

Akira didn’t need to be told twice. He fumbled with his pants, kicking them off to the floor. Yutaka ran his hands down the back of the bassist’s thighs. Gripping Akira’s knees, he spread the other man’s legs as far as they could go on the small couch and fit his hips between them again. He could feel the muscles in Akira’s stomach twitch with excitement.

He trailed his hands back up the blonde’s body, until he could reach behind Akira’s head and under the cushion. Akira looked at him questioning, mouth opening to ask, but he smiled and held up his hand in front of the bassist’s face. Between his fingers, he held a small, familiar tube.

Akira’s eyes locked with his for one short moment before the bassist was grabbing for the tube and surging up to press their lips together again. Yutaka chuckled into the kiss. He’d forgotten how shamelessly eager Akira could be.

This time, when Akira’s hands went to his belt, he didn’t stop them. Nimble fingers worked his pants open and when Akira reached in to wrap a hand around his cock Yutaka pressed his nose into the junction of the bassist’s jaw, eyes shut tight, moaning loudly.

Akira spread his legs impossibly wider and Yutaka let his hand fit under the bassist’s ass, slipping a finger past the tight ring of muscle of Akira’s entrance without so much as a word of warning. The hand around his cock was slick and slid with easy, smooth strokes. Akira’s moans matched his own.

He pressed another finger inside, eyes fluttering as Akira’s muscles clenched around the digits. It was a plead and a warning all in one, and while Yutaka felt inclined to remind the bassist who, exactly, had the authority to warn here, his resolve was washed away by the gentle coaxing of the fingers squeezing his cock, of silent begging.

He would need more than that though.

He closed his teeth around Akira’s earlobe, his own coercion not as gentle. The bassist’s jaws grinded together to hold back a cry, but Yutaka could hear the sound get caught in the other man’s throat. He smirked and whispered softly. “Beg for it.”

A sharp intake of breath and a whimper of his name and he knew Akira was his, knew he could do anything to the bassist and the other man would let him. It was a feeling that had taken him a long time to get used to, but one he’d come to love, to need almost. That both frightened and thrilled him.

The hand on his cock stilled and came up to grip his shoulder tight. “Fuck, Yutaka.”

He twisted his wrist, pressed his fingers in deeper and crooked them just so, earning him another long, keening moan. “Beg. Me. For. It.”

“Please, Yutaka. Please. Fuck—ah! Fuck me, please…” The words flowed from the bassist’s mouth in a stream, breathless and wanton. His eyes closed and he had to focus on breathing himself.

He slid his fingers out slowly, and gripped the bassist’s hips in both hands, pulling Akira down until he could line up. He pushed in slowly, letting Akira feel the drag of every inch of skin. His breath caught in his throat as heat surrounded him, slick and hot and almost unbearable. He could feel Akira’s nails digging into his shoulders again, but didn’t have the patience to wonder if the bassist had broken skin.

He breathed heavy against Akira’s throat, the condensation from his breath mixing with the sweat on the bassist’s skin. He waited, his hips flush against Akira’s thighs, breathing and feeling and trying to keep still.

He could remember the first night they’d done this, on the very same couch. Then it had been a secret, a stupid decision on both their accounts, but no less passionate, no less heated, for the fact. Those feelings hadn’t changed, except now they didn’t have to pretend like it wasn’t happening. This time he knew that Akira belonged to him.

Akira made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. Yutaka felt it vibrate in the chest under his own and he sucked at the bassist’s pulse point in apology. He pulled out only to slam back in, eliciting another of those beautifully helpless moans. Akira had one arm thrown over his shoulder’s, keeping him pressed down, keep him close, the other was gripping the back of the couch, nails catching on the rough fabric.

Their rhythm was quick, ruthless, all harsh breaths against the other’s lips and sweat leaving trails down their backs. Akira was gorgeous, head thrown back, throat exposed, eyes shut tight, a reckless mess in his arms.

His hand reached between their bodies and he gripped Akira’s cock again. Leaning as far forward as he could, he traced his tongue along the shell of the bassist’s ear. “Come on.”

Akira whined, back arching. Yutaka dug his nails into the other man’s hip and thrust in deep, pumping Akira’s cock. His voice was broken and strained when he whispered again. “Let go.”

Another moan and he felt Akira come apart under him, thick, hot fluid spreading over his hand and between his fingers. He stilled his hips, watched the bassist’s mouth fall open, felt each sharply quick breath that the other man took, stroked Akira through it.

Only when the pain of the bassist’s nails eased up on his back and Akira’s body sank back to the couch did Yutaka start thrusting in again. Gentle at first, just reminding Akira he was there. The other man whimpered, eyes cracking open and locking with Yutaka’s, and nodded.

It didn’t take him long to follow after Akira, one thrust, two, three. His eyes shut tight, he gripped Akira’s hips hard and buried himself completely in the other man, shaking through his own release. He was barely aware of his teeth sinking into Akira’s shoulder, and the sound that escaped his throat.

Exhausted, he pulled out and collapsed on top of Akira. He laid his head against Akira’s chest, trying to match his breathing with the other man’s, willing his heart to slow. The bassist’s arms were still wrapped around his shoulders, and there were fingers carding through his hair softly. He hummed, content, sated. At that moment there was no where he would rather be than here, trapped between Akira’s legs, held to the other man by strong arms, a steady heartbeat under his ear, alive.

“I love you,” Akira whispered, voice so soft it was a wonder Yutaka even heard the words. He couldn’t stop the lazy smile that spread across his lips at the sound.

He turned his head and pressed his lips to the bassist’s chest. “I love you too.”

Akira gasped in surprise and Yutaka lifted his head to lock his eyes with the bassist’s. They didn’t speak, but he knew his gaze would tell the other man all he was saying. The hand in his hair tightened for a moment. Akira exhaled.

It seemed almost unreal to Yutaka, everything that had happened to him over the past few years. He remembered the first day he met Takanori and how, before that day, he had convinced himself that he would be stuck in that diner forever. He had to remind himself sometimes where he was in life. That he was actually a little famous.

That he had Akira.

Takanori’s words replayed in his mind. He shook them away. He didn’t want to think about anything that could potentially shatter the small moment of perfection that had settled over him.

He kissed Akira’s chest again.

People were entitled to their secrets.

People were entitled to error.


End file.
